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SKETCHES  IN  LAVENDER,  BLUE, 
AND  GREEN 


BY  JEROME  K.JEROME. 

AUTHOR'S  EDITION. 

SKETCHES  IN  LAVENDER,  BLUE,  AND 
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THERE  WAS  NO  MISTAKING   IT   FOR  ANYTHING  ELSE  (/».  22^ 


SKETCHES  IN  LAVENDER, 
BLUE,  AND  GREEN,  BY  .  . 
JEROME  K.  JEROME  .  .  .  . 


WITH  FORTY  ILLUSTRATIONS 


NEW   YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

1897 


COPYRIGHT,  1897, 

BY 
HENRY  HOLT  &  CO. 


THE   MERSHON   COMPANY   PRESS, 
RAHWAY,    N.    J. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

TALES 

THE  MATERIALIZATION  OF  CHARLES  AND  MIVANWAY,  3 

THE  CHOICE  OF  CYRIL  HARJOHN,      .  24 

BLASE  BILLY, 45 

PORTRAIT  OF  A  LADY,        .        .        .        .        .        .67 

AN  ITEM  OF  FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE,       .        .  88 

DICK  DUNKERMAN'S  CAT, 121 

REGINALD  BLAKE,  FINANCIER  AND  CAD,    .        .  136 

THE  MINOR  POET'S  STORY, 154 

THE  CITY  OF  THE  SEA 173 

CHARACTERSCAPES 

THE  MAN  WHO  WENT  WRONG,         ....  187 

THE  MAN  WHO  DID  NOT  BELIEVE  IN  LUCK,         .  204 

WHIBLEY'S  SPIRIT,              224 

THE  DEGENERATION  OF  THOMAS  HENRY,    .        .  241 
THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  MANAGE,           .        .        .251 

THE  MAN  WHO  LIVED  FOR  OTHERS,             .        .  267 

THE  MAN  OF  HABIT, 283 

THE  ABSENT-MINDED  MAN,           ....  296 

A  CHARMING  WOMAN, 312 

THE  HOBBY  RIDER,                324 


1772325 


FULL-PAGE  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


THERE    WAS    NO  MISTAKING  IT  FOR  ANY- 
THING ELSE,    (Seepage  22.)        .        .  Frontispiece. 

A     STARTLED      "  OH  !  "     CAME      FROM     THE 

SLIGHTLY  PARTED  LIPS,  .  .  Facing  page  6 
I  STEPPED  IN  FRONT  OF  HER  AND  STOPPED  HER,  "  "  34 
I  COULD  HAVE  SWORN  I  SAW  THE  ORIGINAL,  "  "  74 
"  HE  KISSED  MY  HANDS,"  ..."  "82 
"  I  AM  SORRY  I  DON'T  SEE  MY  WAY  TO  OBLIG- 
ING YOUR  LADYSHIP,"  .  .  .  .  "  '  98 
SHE  SCRIBBLED  THE  NAME  DOWN,  "  "  IIO 
THERE  WAS  LITTLE  NEED  FOR  EITHER  FEAR 

OR  CAUTION, "            "      140 

SUDDENLY    EDITH  WAS  KNEELING  ON  THE 

FLOOR  BESIDE  HER,         .        .        .        .  "            "      146 

THE  ABBOT  HELD  HIS  STAFF  ALOFT,              .  "            "      176 


vii 


SKETCHES  IN  LAVENDER,  BLUE, 
AND  GREEN. 


THE    MATERIALIZATION     OF 

CHARLES  AND  MIVANWAY. 

HE  fault  that  most  people  will 
find  with  this  story  is  that  it  is 
unconvincing.  Its  scheme  is 
improbable,  its  atmosphere 
artificial.  To  confess  that  the 
thing  really  happened — not  as 
I  am  about  to  set  it  down,  for 
the  pen  of  the  professional 
writer  cannot  but  adorn  and 
embroider,  even  to  the  detriment  of  his 
material — is,  I  am  well  aware,  only  an  aggra- 
vation of  my  offense;  for  the  facts  of  life  are 
the  impossibilities  of  fiction.  A  truer  artist 
would  have  left  this  story  alone,  or  at  most 
have  kept  it  for  the  irritation  of  his  private 


4  CHARLES  AND  M1VANWAY. 

circle.  My  lower  instinct  is  to  make  use  of 
it.  A  very  old  man  told  me  the  tale;  he  was 
landlord  of  the  Cromlech  Arms,  the  only  inn 
of  a  small,  rock-sheltered  village  on  the  north- 
east coast  of  Cornwall,  and  had  been  so  for 
nine  and  forty  years.  It  is  called  the  Cromlech 
Hotel  now,  and  is  under  new  management,  and 
during  the  season  some  four  coachloads  of  tour- 
ists sit  down  each  day  to  table  d'hote  lunch  in  the 
low-ceilinged  parlor.  But  I  am  speaking  of 
years  ago,  when  the  place  was  a  mere  fishing 
harbor,  undiscovered  by  the  guide  books. 

The  old  landlord  talked,  and  I  harkened,  the 
while  we  both  sat  drinking  thin  ale  from  earth- 
enware mugs,  late  one  summer's  evening,  on 
the  bench  that  runs  along  the  wall  just  beneath 
the  latticed  windows;  and  during  the  many 
pauses,  when  the  old  landlord  stopped  to  puff  his 
pipe  in  silence  and  lay  in  a  new  stock  of  breath, 
there  came  to  us  the  murmuring  voices  of  the 
Atlantic;  and  often,  mingled  with  the  pompous 
roar  of  the  big  breakers  farther  out,  we  would 
hear  the  rippling  laugh  of  some  small  wave  that, 
maybe,  had  crept  in  to  listen  to  the  tale  the  land- 
lord told. 


CHARLES  AND  MIVANWAY.  5 

The  mistake  of  Charles  Seabohn,  junior  part- 
ner of  the  firm  of  Seabohn  &  Son,  civil  engineers 
of  London  and  Newcastle-upon-Tyne,  and  Mi- 
vanway  Evans,  youngest  daughter  of  the  Rev. 
Thomas  Evans,  pastor  of  the  Presbyterian 
Church  at  Bristol,  made  originally,  was  marry- 
ing too  young.  Charles  Seabohn  could  hardly 
have  been  twenty  years  of  age,  and  Mivanway 
could  have  been  little  more  than  seventeen, 
when  they  first  met  upon  the  cliffs,  two  miles 
beyond  the  Cromlech  Arms.  Young  Charles 
Seabohn,  coming  across  the  village  in  the  course 
of  a  walking  tour,  had  decided  to  spend  a  day 
or  two  exploring  the  picturesque  coast;  and 
Mivanway's  father  had  hired  that  year  a  neigh- 
boring farmhouse  wherein  to  spend  his  summer 
vacation. 

Early  one  morning — for  at  twenty  one  is  vir- 
tuous, and  takes  exercise  before  breakfast — as 
young  Charles  Seabohn  lay  upon  the  cliffs, 
watching  the  white  waters  coming  and  going 
upon  the  black  rocks  below,  he  became  aware  of 
a  form  rising  from  the  waves.  The  figure  was 
too  far  off  for  him  to  see  it  clearly,  but,  judging 
from  the  costume,  it  was  a  female  figure,  and 


6  CHARLES  AND  MIVANWA  Y. 

promptly  the  mind  of  Charles,  poetically  in- 
clined, turned  to  thoughts  of  Venus — or  Aphro- 
dite, as  he,  being  a  gentleman  of  delicate  taste, 
would  have  preferred  to  term  her.  He  saw  the 
figure  disappear  behind  a  headland,  but  still 
waited.  In  about  ten  minutes  or  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  it  reappeared,  clothed  in  the  garments 
of  the  eighteen-sixties,  and  came  toward  him. 
Hidden  from  sight  himself  behind  a  group  of 
rocks,  he  could  watch  it  at  his  leisure  ascending 
the  steep  path  from  the  beach;  and  an  exceed- 
ingly sweet  and  dainty  figure  it  would  have 
appeared  even  to  eyes  less  susceptible  than 
those  of  twenty.  Sea-water — I  stand  open 
to  correction — is  not,  I  believe,  considered 
anything  of  a  substitute  for  curling  tongs, 
but  to  the  hair  of  the  youngest  Miss  Evans 
it  had  given  an  additional  and  most  fascina- 
ting wave.  Nature's  red  and  white  had  been 
most  cunningly  laid  on,  and  the  large,  child- 
ish eyes  seemed  to  be  searching  the  world 
for  laughter,  with  which  to  feed  a  pair  of  deli- 
cious pouting  lips.  Charles'  upturned  face,  pet- 
rified into  admiration,  was  just  the  sort  of  thing 
for  which  they  were  on  the  lookout.  A  startled 


A  STARTLED   "OH!"  CAME   FROM   THE  SLIGHTLY  PARTED  LIPS 


CHARLES  AND  MIVANWA  Y.  ^ 

"  Oh!  "  came  from  the  slightly  parted  lips,  fol- 
lowed by  the  merriest  of  laughs,  which  in  its 
turn  was  suddenly  stopped  "by  a  deep  blush. 
Then  the  youngest  Miss  Evans  looked  offended, 
as  though  the  whole  affair  had  been  Charles' 
fault,  which  is  the  way  of  women.  And  Charles, 
feeling  himself  guilty  under  that  stern  gaze  of 
indignation,  rose  awkwardly  and  apologized 
meekly,  whether  for  being  on  the  cliffs  at  all  or 
for  having  got  up  too  early,  he  would  have  been 
unable  to  explain. 

The  youngest  Miss  Evans  graciously  ac- 
cepted the  apology  thus  tendered  with  a  bow, 
and  passed  on,  and  Charles  stood  staring  after 
her  till  the  valley  gathered  her  into  its  spreading 
arms  and  hid  her  from  his  view. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  all  things.  I  am 
speaking  of  the  Universe  as  viewed  from  the 
standpoint  of  Charles  and  Mivanway. 

Six  months  later  they  were  man  and  wife,  or 
perhaps  it  would  be  more  correct  to  say  boy  and 
wifelet.  Seabohn  senior  counseled  delay,  but 
was  overruled  by  the  impatience  of  his  junior 
partner.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Evans,  in  common  with 
most  theologians,  possessed  a  goodly  supply  of 


8  CHARLES  AND  MIVANWA  Y. 

unmarried  daughters,  and  a  limited  income. 
Personally  he  saw  no  necessity  for  postpone- 
ment of  the  marriage. 

The  month's  honeymoon  was  spent  in  the 
New  Forest.  That  was  a  mistake  to  begin  with. 
The  New  Forest  in  February  is  depressing;  and 
they  had  chosen  the  loneliest  spot  they  could 
find.  A  fortnight  in  Paris  or  Rome  would  have 
been  more  helpful.  As  yet  they  had  nothing  to 
talk  about  except  love,  and  that  they  had 
been  talking  and  writing  about  steadily  all 
through  the  winter.  On  the  tenth  morning 
Charles  yawned,  and  Mivanway  had  a  quiet 
half  hour's  cry  about  it  in  her  own  room. 
On  the  sixteenth  evening  Mivanway,  feel- 
ing irritable,  and  wondering  why  (as  though 
fifteen  damp,  chilly  days  in  the  New  For- 
est were  not  sufficient  to  make  any  woman 
irritable),  requested  Charles  not  to  disarrange 
her  hair;  and  Charles,  speechless  with  astonish- 
ment, went  out  into  the  garden  and  swore  be- 
fore all  the  stars  that  he  would  never  caress 
Mivanway's  hair  again  as  long  as  he  lived. 

One  supreme  folly  they  had  conspired  to  com- 
mit, even  before  the  commencement  of  the 


CHARLES  AND  MIVANWAY.  9 

honeymoon.  Charles,  after  the  manner  of  very 
young  lovers,  had  earnestly  requested  Mivan- 
way  to  impose  upon  him  some  task.  He  de- 
sired to  do  something  great  and  noble  to  show 
his  devotion.  Dragons  was  the  thing  he  had  in 
his  mind,  though  he  may  not  have  been  aware 
of  it.  Dragons  also,  no  doubt,  flitted  through 
Mivanway's  brain;  but,  unfortunately  for  lovers, 
the  supply  of  dragons  has  lapsed.  Mivanway, 
liking  the  conceit,  however,  thought  over  it, 
and  then  decided  that  Charles  must  give  up 
smoking.  She  had  discussed  the  matter  with 
her  favorite  sister,  and  that  was  the  only  thing 
the  girls  could  think  of.  Charles'  face  fell.  He 
suggested  some  more  herculean  labor,  some 
sacrifice  more  worthy  to  lay  at  Mivanway's  feet. 
But  Mivanway  had  spoken.  She  might  think 
of  some  other  task,  but  the  smoking  prohibi- 
tion would  in  any  case  remain.  She  dismissed 
the  subject  with  a  pretty  hauteur  that  would 
have  graced  Marie  Antoinette. 

Thus  tobacco,  the  good  angel  of  all  men,  no 
longer  came  each  day  to  teach  Charles  patience 
and  amiability,  and  he  fell  into  the  ways  of  short 
temper  and  selfishness. 


10  CHARLES  AND  MIVANWAY. 

They  took  up  their  residence  in  a  suburb  of 
Newcastle,  and  this  was  also  unfortunate  for 
them,  because  there  the  society  was  scanty  and 
middle-aged;  and,  in  consequence,  they  had  still 
to  depend  much  upon  their  own  resources. 
They  knew  little  of  life,  less  of  each  other,  and 
nothing  at  all  of  themselves.  Of  course,  thev 
quarreled,  and  each  quarrel  left  the  wound  a 
little  deeper  than  before.  No  kindly,  experi- 
enced friend  was  at  hand  to  laugh  at  them. 
Mivanway  would  write  down  all  her  sorrows  in 
a  bulky  diary,  which  made  her  feel  worse;  so 
that  before  she  had  written  for  ten  minutes  her 
pretty,  unwise  head  would  drop  upon  her  dim- 
pled arm,  and  the  book — the  proper  place  for 
which  was  behind  the  fire — would  become  damp 
with  her  tears;  and  Charles,  his  day's  work 
done,  and  the  clerks  gone,  would  linger  in  his 
dingy  office  and  hatch  trifles  into  troubles. 

The  end  came  one  evening  after  dinner,  when, 
in  the  heat  of  a  silly  squabble,  Charles  boxed 
Mivanway's  ears.  That  was  very  ungentle- 
manly  conduct,  and  he  was  heartily  ashamed  of 
himself  the  moment  he  had  done  it,  which  was 
right  and  proper  for  him  to  be.  The  only  ex- 


CHARLES  AND  MIVANWAY.  II 

cuse  to  be  urged  on  his  behalf  is  that  girls  suffi- 
ciently pretty  to  have  been  spoiled  from  child- 
hood, by  everyone  about  them,  can  at  times  be 
intensely  irritating.  Mivanway  rushed  up  to 
her  room  and  locked  herself  in.  Charles  flew 
after  her  to  apologize,  but  only  arrived  in  time 
to  have  the  door  slammed  in  his  face. 

It  had  only  been  the  merest  touch.  A  boy's 
muscles  move  quicker  than  his  thoughts.  But 
to  Mivanway  it  was  a  blow.  This  was  what  it 
had  come  to !  This  was  the  end  of  a  man's  love ! 

She  spent  half  the  night  writing  in  the  pre- 
cious dairy,  with  the  result  that  in  the  morning 
she  came  down  feeling  more  bitter  than  she  had 
gone  up.  Charles  had  walked  the  streets  of 
Newcastle  all  night,  and  that  had  not  done  him 
any  good.  He  met  her  with  an  apology  com- 
bined with  an  excuse,  which  was  bad  tactics. 
Mivanway,  of  course,  fastened  upon  the  excuse, 
and  the  quarrel  recommenced.  She  mentioned 
that  she  hated  him,  he  hinted  that  she  had  never 
loved  him,  and  she  retorted  that  he  had  never 
loved  her.  Had  there  been  anybody  by  to 
knock  their  heads  together,  and  suggest  break- 
fast, the  thing  might  have  blown  over,  but  the 


12  CHARLES  AND  MIVANWAY. 

combined  effect  of  a  sleepless  night  and  an 
empty  stomach  upon  each  proved  disastrous. 
Their  words  came  poisoned  from  their  brains, 
and  each  believed  they  meant  what  they  said. 
That  afternoon  Charles  sailed  from  Hull  on  a 
ship  bound  for  the  Cape,  and  that  evening  Mi- 
vanway  arrived  at  the  paternal  home  in  Bristol 
with  two  trunks  and  the  curt  information  that 
she  and  Charles  had  separated  forever.  The 
next  morning  both  thought  of  a  soft  speech  to 
say  to  the  other;  but  the  next  morning  was  just 
twenty-four  hours  too  late. 

Eight  days  afterward  Charles'  ship  was  run 
down  in  a  fog,  near  the  coast  of  Portugal,  and 
every  soul  on  board  was  supposed  to  have  per- 
ished. Mivanway  read  his  name  among  the  list 
of  lost ;  the  child  died  within  her,  and  she  knew 
herself  for  a  woman  who  had  loved  deeply  and 
will  not  love  again. 

Good  luck,  however,  intervening,  Charles  and 
one  other  man  were  rescued  by  a  small  trading 
vessel,  and  landed  in  Algiers.  There  Charles 
learned  of  his  supposed  death,  and  the  idea  oc- 
curred to  him  to  leave  the  report  uncontra- 
dicted.  For  one  thing,  it  solved  a  problem  that 


CHARLES  AND  MIVANWAY.  13 

had  been  troubling  him.  He  could  trust  his 
father  to  see  to  it  that  his  own  small  fortune, 
with  possibly  something  added,  was  handed 
over  to  Mivanway,  and  she  would  be  free,  if  she 
wished,  to  marry  again.  He  was  convinced  that 
she  did  not  care  for  him,  and  that  she  had  read 
of  his  death  with  a  sense  of  relief.  He  would 
make  a  new  life  for  himself,  and  forget  her. 

He  continued  his  journey  to  the  Cape,  and, 
once  there,  he  soon  gained  for  himself  an  excel- 
lent position.  The  colony  was  young,  engineers 
were  welcome,  and  Charles  knew  his  business. 
He  found  the  life  interesting  and  exciting.  The 
rough,  dangerous,  up-country  work  suited  him, 
and  the  time  passed  swiftly. 

But  in  thinking  he  would  forget  Mivanway 
he  had  not  taken  into  consideration  his  own 
character,  which  at  bottom  was  a  very  gentle- 
manly character.  Out  on  the  lonely  veldt  he 
found  himself  dreaming  of  her.  The  memory  of 
her  pretty  face  and  merry  laugh  came  back  to 
him  at  all  hours.  Occasionally  he  would  curse 
her  roundly,  but  that  only  meant  that  he  was 
sore  because  of  the  thought  of  her;  what  he  was 
really  cursing  was  himself  and  his  own  folly. 


14  CHARLES  AND  MIVANWAY. 

Softened  by  the  distance,  her  quick  temper,  her 
very  petulance,  became  mere  added  graces;  and 
if  we  consider  women  as  human  beings,  and  not 
as  angels,  it  was  certainly  a  fact  that  he  had  lost 
a  very  sweet  and  lovable  woman.  Ah!  if  only 
she  were  by  his  side  now — now  that  he  was  a 
man  capable  of  appreciating  her,  and  not  a  fool- 
ish, selfish  boy.  This  thought  would  come  to 
him  as  he  sat  smoking  at  the  door  of  his  tent; 
and  then  he  would  regret  that  the  stars  looking 
down  upon  him  were  not  the  same  stars  that 
were  watching  her;  it  would  have  made  him  feel 
nearer  to  her.  For,  though  young  people  may 
not  credit  it,  one  grows  more  sentimental  as 
one  grows  older;  at  least,  some  of  us  do,  and 
they,  perhaps,  not  the  least  wise. 

One  night  he  had  a  vivid  dream  of  her.  She 
came  to  him  and  held  out  her  hand,  and  he  took 
it,  and  they  said  good-by  to  one  another.  They 
were  standing  on  the  cliff  where  he  had  first  met 
her,  and  one  of  them  was  going  upon  a  long 
journey,  though  he  was  not  sure  which. 

In  the  towns  men  laugh  at  dreams,  but  away 
from  civilization  we  listen  more  readily  to  the 
strange  tales  that  nature  whispers  to  us. 


CHARLES  AND  Ml  VAN  WAY.  15 

Charles  Seabohn  recollected  this  dream  when  he 
awoke  in  the  morning. 

"  She  is  dying,"  he  said,  "  and  she  has  come 
to  wish  me  good-by." 

He  made  up  his  mind  to  return  to  England 
at  once;  perhaps,  if  he  made  haste,  he  would  be 
in  time  to  kiss  her.  But  he  could  not  start  that 
day,  for  work  was  to  be  done;  and  Charles  Sea- 
bohn, lover  though  he  still  was,  had  grown  to 
be  a  man,  and  knew  that  work  must  not  be 
neglected  even  though  the  heart  may  be  calling. 
So  for  a  day  or  two  he  stayed,  and  on  the  third 
night  he  dreamed  of  Mivanway  again,  and  this 
time  she  lay  within  the  little  chapel  at  Bristol 
where,  on  Sunday  mornings,  he  had  often  sat 
with  her.  He  heard  her  father's  voice  reading 
the  burial  service  over  her,  and  the  sister  she 
had  loved  best  was  sitting  beside  him,  crying 
softly.  Then  Charles  knew  that  there  was  no 
need  for  him  to  hasten.  So  he  remained  to  fin- 
ish his  work.  That  done,  he  would  return  to 
England.  He  would  like  again  to  stand  upon 
the  cliffs  above  the  little  Cornish  village  where 
they  had  first  met. 

Thus,  a  few  months  later,  Charles  Seabohn, 


16  CHARLES  AND  MIVANWA  Y. 

or  Charles  Denning,  as  he  called  himself,  aged 
and  bronzed,  not  easily  recognizable  by  those 
who  had  not  known  him  well,  walked  into  the 
Cromlech  Arms,  as  six  years  before  he  had 
walked  in,  with  his  knapsack  on  his  back,  and 
asked  for  a  room,  saying  he  would  be  stopping 
in  the  village  for  a  short  while. 

In  the  evening  he  strolled  out  and  made  his 
way  to  the  cliffs.  It  was  twilight  when  he 
reached  the  place  of  rocks  to  which  the  fancy- 
loving  Cornish  folk  had  given  the  name  of  the 
Witches'  Caldron.  It  was  from  this  spot  that 
he  had  first  watched  Mivanway  coming  to  him 
from  the  sea. 

He  took  the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and,  lean- 
ing against  a  rock  whose  rugged  outline  seemed 
fashioned  into  the  face  of  an  old  friend,  gazed 
down  the  narrow  pathway  now  growing  indis- 
tinct in  the  dim  light.  And  as  he  gazed  the 
figure  of  Mivanway  came  slowly  up  the  path- 
way from  the  sea  and  paused  before  him. 

He  felt  no  fear.  He  had  half  expected  it. 
Her  coming  was  the  complement  of  his  dreams. 
She  looked  older  and  graver  than  he  remem- 
bered her,  but  for  that  the  face  was  the  sweeter. 


CHARLES  AND  MIVANWAY.  17 

He  wondered  if  she  would  speak  to  him,  but 
she  only  looked  at  him  with  sad  eyes;  and  he 
stood  there  in  the  shadow  of  the  rocks  without 
moving,  and  she  passed  on  into  the  twilight. 

Had  he  on  his  return  cared  to  discuss  the 
subject  with  his  landlord,  had  he  even  shown 
himself  a  ready  listener — for  the  old  man  loved 
to  gossip — he  might  have  learned  that  a  young 
widow  lady,  named  Mrs.  Charles  Seabohn,  ac- 
companied by  an  unmarried  sister,  had  lately 
come  to  reside  in  the  neighborhood,  having, 
upon  the  death  of  a  former  tenant,  taken  the 
lease  of  a  small  farmhouse  sheltered  in  the  valley 
a  mile  beyond  the  village;  and  that  her  favorite 
evening's  walk  was  to  the  sea  and  back  by  the 
steep  footway  leading  past  "  The  Witches' 
Caldron." 

Had  he  followed  the  figure  of  Mivanway  into 
the  valley  he  would  have  known  that  out  of 
sight  of  the  Witches'  Caldron  it  took  to  run- 
ning fast  till  it  reached  a  welcome  door,  and 
fell  panting  into  the  arms  of  another  figure  that 
had  hastened  out  to  meet  it. 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  elder  woman,  "  you  are 
trembling  like  a  leaf.  What  has  happened?  " 


1 8  CHARLES  AND  MIVANWAY, 

"  I  have  seen  him,"  answered  Mivanway. 

"  Seen  whom?  " 

"  Charles." 

"Charles!"  repeated  the  other,  looking  at 
Mivanway  as  though  she  thought  her  mad. 

"  His  spirit,  I  mean,"  explained  Mivanway,  in 
an  awed  voice.  "  It  was  standing  in  the  shadow 
of  the  rocks,  in  the  exact  spot  where  we  first 
met.  It  looked  older  and  more  careworn;  but, 
oh!  Margaret,  so  sad  and  reproachful." 

"  My  dear,"  said  her  sister,  leading  her  in, 
"  you  are  overwrought.  I  wish  we  had  never 
come  back  to  this  house." 

"Oh!  I  was  not  frightened,"  answered  Mi- 
vanway. "  I  have  been  expecting  it  every  even- 
ing. I  am  so  glad  it  came.  Perhaps  it  will 
come  again,  and  I  can  ask  it  to  forgive  me." 

So  next  night  Mivanway,  though  much 
against  her  sister's  wishes  and  advice,  persisted 
in  her  usual  walk,  and  Charles,  at  the  same  twi- 
light hour,  started  from  the  inn. 

Again  Mivanway  saw  him  standing  in  the 
shadow  of  the  rocks.  Charles  had  made  up  his 
mind  that  if  the  thing  happened  again  he  would 
speak;  but  when  the  silent  figure  of  Mivanway, 


CHARLES  AND  MIVANWAY.  19 

clothed  in  the  fading  light,  stopped  and  gazed 
at  him,  his  will  failed  him. 

That  it  was  the  spirit  of  Mivanway  standing 
before  him  he  had  not  the  faintest  doubt.  One 
may  dismiss  other  people's  ghosts  as  the  phan- 
tasies of  a  weak  brain,  but  one  knows  one's  own 
to  be  realities;  and  Charles,  for  the  last  five 
years,  had  mingled  with  a  people  whose  dead 
dwell  about  them.  Once,  drawing  his  courage 
around  him,  he  made  to  speak;  but  as  he  did  so 
the  figure  of  Mivanway  shrank  from  him,  and 
only  a  sigh  escaped  his  lips;  and  hearing  that, 
the  figure  of  Mivanway  turned,  and  again 
passed  down  the  path  into  the  valley,  leaving 
Charles  gazing  after  it. 

But  the  third  night  both  arrived  at  the  try  st- 
ing spot  with  determination  screwed  up  to  the 
sticking  point. 

Charles  was  the  first  to  speak.  As  the  figure 
of  Mivanway  came  toward  him,  with  its  eyes 
fixed  sadly  on  him,  he  moved  from  the  shadow 
of  the  rocks,  and  stood  before  it. 

"  Mivanway!  "  he  said. 

"  Charles,"  replied  the  figure  of  Mivanway. 
Both  spoke  in  an  awed  whisper  suitable  to  the 


20  CHARLES  AND  MIVANWAY. 

circumstances,  and  each  stood  gazing  sorrow- 
fully upon  the  other. 

"  Are  you  happy?  "  asked  Mivanway. 

The  question  strikes  one  as  somewhat  farci- 
cal; but  it  must  be  remembered  that  Mivanway 
was  the  daughter  of  a  Gospeler  of  the  old 
school,  and  had  been  brought  up  to  beliefs  that 
were  not  then  out  of  date. 

"  As  happy  as  I  deserve  to  be,"  was  the  sad 
reply;  and  the  answer — the  inference  was  not 
complimentary  to  Charles'  deserts — struck  a 
chill  to  Mivanway's  heart.  "  How  could  I  be 
happy  having  lost  you?  "  went  on  the  voice  of 
Charles. 

Now,  this  speech  fell  very  pleasantly  upon 
Mivanway's  ears.  In  the  first  place,  it  relieved 
her  of  the  despair  regarding  Charles'  future.  No 
doubt  his  present  suffering  was  keen,  but  there 
was  hope  for  him.  Secondly,  it  was  a  decidedly 
"  pretty  "  speech  for  a  ghost ;  and  I  am  not  at  all 
sure  that  Mivanway  was  the  kind  of  woman  to 
be  averse  to  a  little  mild  flirtation  with  the  spirit 
of  Charles. 

"  Can  you  forgive  me?  "  asked  Mivanway. 

"  Forgive  you! "  replied  Charles,  in  a  tone  of 


CHARLES  AND  MIVANWAY.  ?1 

awed  astonishment.  "  Can  you  forgive  me?  I 
was  a  brute — a  fool — I  was  not  worthy  to  love 
you."  A  most  gentlemanly  spirit  it  seemed  to 
be.  Mivanway  forgot  to  be  afraid  of  it. 

"  We  were  both  to  blame,"  answered  Mivan- 
way. But  this  time  there  was  less  submission 
in  her  tones.  "  But  I  was  the  most  at  fault.  I 
was  a  petulant  child.  I  did  not  know  how 
deeply  I  loved  you." 

"You  loved  me!"  repeated  the  voice  of 
Charles,  and  the  voice  lingered  over  the  words, 
as  though  it  found  them  sweet. 

"  Surely  you  never  doubted  it,"  answered  the 
voice  of  Mivanway.  "  I  never  ceased  to  love 
you.  I  shall  love  you  always  and  ever." 

The  figure  of  Charles  sprang  forward  as 
though  it  would  clasp  the  ghost  of  Mivanway 
in  its  arms,  but  halted  a  step  or  two  off. 

"  Bless  me  before  you  go,"  he  said,  and  with 
uncovered  head,  the  figure  of  Charles  knelt  to 
the  figure  of  Mivanway. 

Really,  ghosts  could  be  exceedingly  nice  when 
they  liked.  Mivanway  bent  graciously  toward 
her  shadowy  suppliant,  and,  as  she  did  so,  her 
eye  caught  sight  of  something  on  the  grass  be- 


22  CHARLES  AND  MIVANWA  Y. 

side  it,  and  that  something  was  a  well-colored 
meerschaum  pipe.  There  was  no  mistaking  it 
for  anything  else,  even  in  that  treacherous  light ; 
it  lay  glistening  where  Charles,  in  falling  upon 
his  knees,  had  jerked  it  from  his  breast  pocket. 

Charles,  following  Mivanway's  eyes,  saw  it 
also;  and  the  memory  of  the  prohibition  against 
smoking  came  back  to  him. 

Without  stopping  to  consider  the  futility  of 
the  action — nay,  the  direct  confession  implied 
thereby — he  instinctively  grabbed  at  the  pipe, 
and  rammed  it  back  into  his  pocket;  and  then 
an  avalanche  of  mingled  understanding  and  be- 
wilderment, fear  and  joy,  swept  Mivanway's 
brain  before  it.  She  felt  she  must  do  one  of  two 
things,  laugh  or  scream  and  go  on  screaming; 
and  she  laughed.  Peal  after  peal  of  laughter 
she  sent  echoing  among  the  rocks,  and  Charles, 
springing  to  his  feet,  was  just  in  time  to  catch 
her  as  she  fell  forward,  a  dead  weight  into  his 
arms. 

Ten  minutes  later  the  eldest  Miss  Evans, 
hearing  heavy  footsteps,  went  to  the  door.  She 
saw  what  she  took  to  be  the  spirit  of  Charles 
Seabohn,  staggering  under  the  weight  of  the 


CHARLES  AND  MIVANWAY.  23 

lifeless  body  of  Mivanway;  and  the  sight  not 
unnaturally  alarmed  her.  Charles'  suggestion 
of  brandy,  however,  sounded  human;  and  the 
urgent  need  of  attending  to  Mivanway  kept  her 
mind  from  dwelling  upon  problems  tending 
toward  insanity. 

Charles  carried  Mivanway  to  her  room  and 
laid  her  upon  the  bed. 

"  I'll  leave  her  with  you,"  he  whispered  to  the 
eldest  Miss  Evans.  "  It  will  be  better  for  her 
not  to  see  me  until  she  is  quite  recovered.  She 
has  had  a  shock." 

Charles  waited  in  the  dark  parlor  for  what 
seemed  to  him  an  exceedingly  long  time.  But 
at  last  the  eldest  Miss  Evans  returned. 

"  She's  all  right  now,"  were  the  welcome 
words  he  heard. 

"  I'll  go  and  see  her,"  he  said. 

"  But  she's  in  bed!  "  exclaimed  the  scandal- 
ized Miss  Evans. 

And  then,  as  Charles  only  laughed;  "  Oh,  ah 
— yes,  I  suppose — of  course,"  she  added. 

And  the  eldest  Miss  Evans,  left  alone,  sat 
down  and  wrestled  with  the  conviction  that  she 
was  dreaming. 


THE  CHOICE  OF  CYRIL  HARJOHN. 

ETWEEN  a  junior  resident  master 
of  twenty-one  and  a  backward  lad  of 
fifteen  there  yawns  an  impassable 
gulf.  Between  a  struggling  journal- 
ist of  one-and-thirty  and  an  M.  D.  of  twenty- 
five,  with  a  brilliant  record  behind  him  and  a 
career  of  exceptional  promise  before  him,  a 
close  friendship  is,  however,  permissible. 

My  introduction  to  Cyril  Harjohn  was 
through  the  Rev.  Charles  Fauerberg. 

"  Our  young  friend,"  said  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Fauerberg,  standing  in  the  most  approved 
tutorial  attitude,  with  his  hand  upon  his  pupil's 
shoulder;  " — our  young  friend  has  been  some- 
what neglected,  but  I  see  in  him  possibilities 
warranting  hope — warranting,  I  may  say,  very 
great  hope.  For  the  present  he  will  be  under  my 
especial  care;  and  you  will  not,  therefore,  con- 
cern yourself  with  his  studies.  He  will  sleep 
with  Milling  and  the  others  in  dormitory  num- 
ber two." 


THE   CHOICE   OF  CYRIL  HARJOHN.  25 

The  lad  formed  a  liking  for  me,  and  I  think, 
and  hope,  I  rendered  his  sojourn  at  "  Alpha 
House  "  less  irksome  than  otherwise  it  might 
have  been.  The  Rev.  Charles  method  with 
the  backward  was  on  all  fours  with  that 
adopted  for  the  bringing  on  of  geese;  he  cooped 
them  up  and  crammed  them.  The  process  is 
profitable  to  the  trainer,  but  painful  to  the 
goose. 

Young  Harjohn  and  myself  left  "  Alpha 
House  "  at  the  end  of  the  same  term;  he  bound 
for  Brasenose,  I  for  Bloomsbury.  He  made  a 
point  of  never  coming  up  to  London  without 
calling  on  me,  when  we  would  dine  together  in 
one  of  Soho's  many  dingy,  garlic-scented  restau- 
rants; and  afterward,  over  our  bottle  of  cheap 
Beaune,  discuss  the  coming  of  our  lives;  and 
when  he  entered  Guy's  I  left  John  Street  and 
took  chambers  close  to  his  in  Staple  Inn. 
Those  were  pleasant  days;  childhood  is  an  over- 
rated period,  fuller  of  sorrow  than  of  joy.  I 
would  not  take  my  childhood  back,  were  it  a 
gift,  but  I  would  give  the  rest  of  my  life  to  live 
the  twenties  over  again. 

To  Cyril  I  was  a  man  of  the  world,  and  he 


26  THE   CHOICE   OF  CYRIL   HARJOHN. 

looked  to  me  for  wisdom,  not  seeing  always,  I 
fear,  that  he  got  it;  while  from  him,  I  gathered 
enthusiasm,  and  learned  the  profit  that  comes 
to  a  man  from  the  keeping  of  ideals. 

Often,  as  we  have  talked,  I  have  felt  as 
though  a  visible  light  came  from  him,  framing 
his  face  as  with  a  halo  of  some  pictured  saint. 
Nature  had  wasted  him,  putting  him  into 
this  nineteenth  century  of  ours.  Her  victories 
are  accomplished.  Her  army  of  heroes,  the  few 
sung,  the  many  forgotten,  is  disbanded.  The 
long  peace  won  by  their  blood  and  pain  is  set- 
tled on  the  land.  She  had  fashioned  Cyril  Har- 
john  for  one  of  her  soldiers.  He  would  have 
been  a  martyr,  in  the  days  when  thought  led  to 
the  stake;  a  fighter  for  the  truth,  when  to  speak 
one's  mind  meant  death.  To  lead  some  forlorn 
hope  for  Civilization  would  have  been  his  true 
work;  Fate  had  condemned  him  to  sentry  duty 
in  a  well  ordered  barrack. 

But  there  is  work  to  be  done  in  the  world, 
though  the  labor  lies  now  in  the  vineyard,  not 
on  the  battlefield.  A  small  but  sufficient  for- 
tune purchased  for  him  freedom.  To  most 
men  an  assured  income  is  the  grave  of  ambition; 


THE    CHOICE   OF  CYRIL  EAR  JOHN.  2^ 

to  Cyril  it  was  the  foundation  of  hope.  Re- 
lieved from  the  necessity  of  working  to  live,  he 
could  afford  the  luxury  of  living  to  work.  His 
profession  was  to  him  a  passion;  he  regarded  it, 
not  with  the  cold  curiosity  of  the  scientist,  but 
with  the  imaginative  devotion  of  the  enthusiast. 
To  help  to  push  its  frontiers  forward,  to  carry  its 
flag  further  into  the  untraveled  desert  that  ever 
lies  beyond  the  moving  boundary  of  human 
knowledge,  was  his  dream. 

One  summer  evening,  I  remember,  we  were 
sitting  in  his  rooms;  and,  during  a  silence,  there 
came  to  us  through  the  open  window  the  moan- 
ing of  the  city,  as  of  a  tired  child.  He  rose  and 
stretched  his  arms  out  toward  the  darkening 
streets,  as  if  he  would  gather  to  him  all  the  toil- 
ing men  and  women  and  comfort  them. 

"  Oh,  that  I  could  help  you!  "  he  cried,  "  my 
brothers  and  my  sisters.  Take  my  life,  O  God, 
and  spend  it  for  me  among  your  people!  " 

The  speech  sounds  theatrical,  as  I  read  it, 
written  down,  but  to  the  young  such  words  are 
not  ridiculous,  as  to  us  older  men. 

In  the  natural  course  of  events  he  fell  in  love, 
and  with  just  the  woman  one  would  expect  him 


28  THE   CHOICE   OF  CYRIL  HARJOHN. 

to  be  attracted  by.  Elspeth  Grant  was  of  the 
type  from  which  the  world,  by  instinct  rather 
than  by  convention,  has  drawn  its  Madonnas 
and  its  saints.  To  describe  a  woman  in  words 
is  impossible.  Her  beauty  was  not  a  possession 
to  be  catalogued,  but  herself.  One  felt  it  as 
one  feels  the  beauty  of  a  summer's  dawn,  break- 
ing the  shadows  of  a  sleeping  city;  but  one 
cannot  set  it  down.  I  often  met  her,  and, 
when  talking  to  her,  I  knew  myself — I,  hack- 
journalist,  frequenter  of  Fleet  Street  bars,  re- 
tailer of  smoke-room  stories — a  great  gentle- 
man, incapable  of  meanness,  fit  for  all  noble 
deeds. 

In  her  presence  life  became  a  thing  beautiful 
and  gracious;  a  school  for  courtesy  and  tender- 
ness and  simplicity. 

I  have  wondered  since,  coming  to  see  a  little 
more  clearly  into  the  ways  of  men,  whether  it 
would  not  have  been  better  had  she  been  less 
spiritual,  had  her  nature  possessed  a  greater 
alloy  of  earth,  making  it  more  fit  for  the  uses 
of  this  workaday  world.  But,  at  the  time, 
these  two  friends  of  mine  seemed  to  me  to  have 
been  created  for  one  another. 


THE   CHOICE   OF  CYRIL  HARJOHN.  29 

She  appealed  to  all  that  was  highest  in  Cyril's 
character,  and  he  worshiped  her  with  an  un- 
concealed adoration  that,  from  any  man  less 
high-minded,  would  have  appeared  affectation, 
and  which  she  accepted  with  the  sweet  content 
that  Artemis  might  have  accorded  to  the  hom- 
age of  Endymion. 

There  was  no  formal  engagement  between 
them.  Cyril  seemed  to  shrink  from  the  ma- 
terializing of  his  love  by  any  thought  of  mar- 
riage. To  him  she  was  an  ideal  of  womanhood 
rather  than  a  flesh  and  blood  woman.  His  love 
for  her  was  a  religion ;  it  had  no  taint  of  earthly 
passion  in  its  composition. 

Had  I  known  the  world  better  I  might  have 
anticipated  the  result;  for  the  red  blood  ran  in 
my  friend's  veins;  and,  alas,  we  dream  our 
poems,  not  live  them.  But  at  the  time,  the  idea 
of  any  other  woman  coming  between  them 
would  have  appeared  to  me  folly.  The  sugges- 
tion that  that  other  woman  might  be  Geraldine 
Fawley  I  should  have  resented  as  an  insult  to 
my  intelligence — that  is  the  point  of  the  story 
I  do  not  understand  to  this  day. 

That  he  should  be  attracted  by  her,  that  he 


30  THE   CHOICE   OF  CYRIL  HARJOHN. 

should  love  to  linger  near  her,  watching  the 
dark  flush  come  and  go  across  her  face,  seeking 
to  call  the  fire  into  her  dark  eyes  was  another 
matter,  and  quite  comprehensible;  for  the  girl 
was  wonderfully  handsome,  with  a  bold,  volup- 
tuous beauty  which  invited  while  it  dared.  But, 
considered  in  any  other  light  than  that  of  an 
animal,  she  repelled.  At  times  when,  for  her 
ends,  it  seemed  worth  the  exertion,  she  would 
assume  a  certain  wayward  sweetness;  but  her 
acting  was  always  clumsy  and  exaggerated, 
capable  of  deceiving  no  one  except  a  fool. 

'Cyril,  at  all  events,  was  not  taken  in  by  it. 
One  evening,  at  a  Bohemian  gathering,  the 
entree  to  which  was  notoriety  rather  than 
character,  they  had  been  talking  together  for 
some  considerable  time,  when,  wishing  to  speak 
to  Cyril,  I  strolled  up  to  join  them.  As  I  came 
toward  them  she  moved  away,  her  dislike  for  me 
being  equal  to  mine  for  her;  a  thing  which  was, 
perhaps,  well  for  me. 

"  Miss  Fawley  prefers  two  as  company  to 
three,"  I  observed,  looking  after  her  retreating 
figure. 

"  I  am  afraid  she  finds  you  what  we  should 


THE   CHOICE   OF  CYRIL   HARJOHN.  31 

call  an  anti-sympathetic  element,"  he  replied, 
laughing. 

"  Do  you  like  her?  "  I  asked  him,  somewhat 
bluntly. 

His  eyes  rested  upon  her  as  she  stood  in  the 
doorway,  talking  to  a  small,  black-bearded  man 


"  I  think  her  the  embodiment  of  all  that  is  evil  in  womanhood." 

who  had  just  been  introduced  to  her.  After  a 
few  moments  she  went  out  upon  his  arm,  and 
then  Cyril  turned  to  me. 

"  I  think  her,"  he  replied,  speaking,  as  was 


32  THE   CHOICE   OF  CYRIL   HARJOHN. 

necessary,  very  low,  "  the  embodiment  of  all 
that  is  evil  in  womanhood.  In  old  days  she 
would  have  been  a  Cleopatra,  a  Theodora,  a  De- 
lilah. To-day,  lacking  opportunity,  she  is  the 
'  smart  woman  '  grubbing  for  an  opening  into 
society — and  old  Fawley's  daughter.  I'm  tired; 
let  us  go  home." 

His  allusion  to  her  parentage  was  significant. 
Few  people  thought  of  connecting  clever,  hand- 
some Geraldine  Fawley  with  "  Rogue  Fawley," 
Jew,  renegade,  ex-jail-bird,  and  outside  broker; 
who,  having  expectations  from  his  daughter, 
took  care  not  to  hamper  her  by  ever  being  seen 
in  her  company.  But  no  one  who  had  once 
met  the  father  could  ever  forget  the  relation- 
ship while  talking  to  the  daughter.  The  older 
face,  with  its  cruelty,  its  cunning,  and  its  greed 
stood  reproduced,  feature  for  feature,  line  for 
line.  It  was  as  though  Nature,  for  an  artistic 
freak,  had  set  herself  the  task  of  fashioning 
hideousness  and  beauty  from  precisely  the  same 
materials.  Between  the  leer  of  the  man  and 
the  smile  of  the  girl,  where  lay  the  difference? 
It  would  have  puzzled  any  student  of  anatomy 
to  point  it  out.  Yet  the  one  sickened,  while  to 


THE   CHOICE   OF  CYRIL  HARJOHN.  33 

gain  the  other  most  men  would  have  given 
much. 

Cyril's  answer  to  my  question  satisfied  me  for 
the  time.  He  met  the  girl  often,  as  was  natu- 
ral. She  was  a  singer  of  some  repute,  and  our 
social  circle  was  what  is  commonly  called 
"  literary  and  artistic."  To  do  her  justice,  how- 
ever, she  made  no  attempt  to  fascinate  him, 
nor  even  to  be  particularly  agreeable  to  him. 
Indeed,  she  seemed  to  be  at  pains  to  show  him 
her  natural— in  other  words,  her  most  objec- 
tionable side. 

Coming  out  of  the  theater  one  first  night  we 
met  her  in  the  lobby.  I  was  following  Cyril  at 
some  little  distance,  but  as  he  stopped  to  speak 
to  her  the  movement  of  the  crowd  placed  me 
just  behind  them. 

"  Will  you  be  at  the  Leightons'  to-morrow?  " 
I  heard  him  ask  her  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  and  I  wish  you 
wouldn't  come." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  you're  a  fool,  and  you  bore  me." 

Under  ordinary  circumstances  I  should  have 
taken  the  speech  for  badinage — it  was  the  kind 


34  THE   CHOICE    OF  CYRIL   HARJOHN. 

of  wit  the  woman  would  have  indulged  in.  But 
Cyril's  face  clouded  with  anger  and  vexation.  I 
said  nothing.  I  did  not  wish  him  to  know  that 
I  had  overheard.  I  tried  to  believe  that  he  was 
amusing  himself,  but  my  own  explanation  did 
not  satisfy  me. 

Next  evening  I  went  to  the  Leightons'  by 
myself.  The  Grants  were  in  town,  and  Cyril 
was  dining  with  them.  I  found  I  did  not  know 
many  people,  and  cared  little  for  those  I  did.  I 
was  about  to  escape  when  Miss  Fawley's  name 
was  announced.  I  was  close  to  the  door,  and 
she  had  to  stop  and  speak  to  me.  We  ex- 
changed a  few  commonplaces.  She  either 
made  love  to  a  man  or  was  rude  to  him.  She 
generally  talked  to  me  without  looking  at  me, 
nodding  and  smiling  meanwhile  to  people 
around.  I  have  met  many  women  equally  ill- 
mannered,  and  without  her  excuse.  For  a  mo- 
ment, however,  she  turned  her  eyes  to  mine. 

"  Where's  .your  friend  Mr.  Harjohn? "  she 
asked.  "  I  thought  you  were  inseparables." 

I  looked  at  her  in  astonishment.     "  He's  din 
ing  out  to-night,"  I  replied.     "  I  do  not  think 
he  will  come." 


I   STEPPED   IN   FRONT   OF    HER   AND   STOPPED   HER 


THE    CHOICE    OF  CYRIL  HARJOHN.  35 

She  laughed;  I  think  it  was  the  worst  part 
about  the  woman,  her  laugh;  it  suggested  so 
much  cruelty. 

"  I  think  he  will,"  she  said. 

It  angered  me  into  an  indiscretion.  She  was 
moving  away.  I  stepped  in  front  of  her  and 
stopped  her. 

"  What  makes  you  thing  so?  "  I  asked,  and 
my  voice,  I  know,  betrayed  the  anxiety  I  felt  as 
to  her  reply.  She  looked  me  straight  in  the 
face;  there  was  one  virtue  she  possessed — the 
virtue  that  animals  hold  above  mankind — truth- 
fulness. She  knew  I  disliked  her — hate  would 
be,  perhaps,  a  more  exact  expression,  did  not 
the  word  sound  out  of  date — and  she  made  no 
pretense  of  not  knowing  it,  and  returned  the 
compliment. 

"  Because  I  am  here,"  she  answered.  "  Why 
don't  you  save  him?  Have  you  no  influence 
over  him?  Tell  the  Saint  to  keep  him;  I  don't 
want  him.  You  heard  what  I  said  to  him  last 
night.  I  shall  only  marry  him  for  the  sake  of 
his  position,  and  the  money  he  can  earn  if  he 
likes  to  work  and  not  play  the  fool.  Tell  him 
what  I  have  said — I  shan't  deny  it." 


36  THE   CHOICE    OF  CYRIL   HARJOHN. 

She  passed  on  to  greet  a  decrepit  old  lord 
with  a  languishing  smile,  and  I  stood  staring 
after  her  with,  I  fear,  a  somewhat  stupid  expres- 
sion, until  some  young  fool  came  up  grinning, 
to  ask  me  whether  I  had  seen  a  ghost  or  backed 
a  "  wrong-un." 

There  was  no  need  to  wait;  I  felt  no  curiosity. 
Something  told  me  the  woman  had  spoken  the 
truth.  It  was  mere  want  of  motive  that  made 
me  linger.  I  saw  him  come  in,  and  watched 
him  hanging  round  her,  like  a  dog,  waiting  for 
a  kind  word,  or,  failing  that,  a  kick.  I  knew  she 
saw  me,  and  I  knew  it  added  to  her  zest  that  I 
was  there.  Not  till  we  were  in  the  street  did  I 
speak  to  him.  He  started  as  I  touched  him. 
We  were  neither  of  us  good  actors;  he  must 
have  read  much  in  my  face,  and  I  saw  that  he 
had  read  it;  and  we  walked,  side  by  side,  in 
silence,  I  thinking  what  to  say,  wondering 
whether  I  should  do  good  or  harm,  wishing 
that  we  were  anywhere  but  in  these  silent,  life- 
packed  streets,  so  filled  with  the  unseen.  The 
Leightons'  house  was  in  Chelsea,  but  it  was  not 
till  we  had  nearly  reached  the  Albert  Hall  that 
we  broke  the  silence.  Then  it  was  he  who 
spoke : 


THE   CHOICE   OF  CYRIL  HARJOHN,  37 

"  Do  you  think  I  haven't  told  myself  all 
that?  "  he  said.  "  Do  you  think  I  don't  know 

I'm  a  d d  fool,  a  cad,  a  liar!  What  the 

devil's  the  good  of  talking  about  it?  " 

"  But  I  can't  understand  it,"  I  said. 

"  No,"  he  replied,  "  because  you're  a  fool,  be- 
cause you  have  only  seen  one  side  of  me.  You 
think  me  a  grand  gentleman,  because  I  talk  big, 
and  am  full  of  noble  sentiment.  Why,  you 
idiot,  the  Devil  himself  could  take  you  in.  He 
has  his  fine  moods,  I  suppose,  talks  like  a  saint, 
and  says  his  prayers  like  the  rest  of  us.  Do  you 
remember  the  first  night  at  Old  Fauerberg's? 
You  poked  your  silly  head  into  the  dormitory, 
and  saw  me  kneeling  by  the  bedside,  while  the 
other  fellows  stood  by  grinning.  You  closed  the 
door  softly — you  thought  I  never  saw  you.  I 
was  not  praying,  I  was  trying  to  pray." 

"  It  showed  that  you  had  pluck,  if  it  showed 
nothing  else,"  I  answered.  "  Most  boys  would 
not  have  tried,  and  you  kept  it  up." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  he  answered,  "  I  promised  the 
mater  I  would,  and  I  did.  Poor  old  soul,  she 
was  as  big  a  fool  as  you  are.  She  believed  in 
me.  But  don't  you  remember  finding  me  one 


38  THE    CHOICE   OF  CYRIL   HA  It  JOHN. 

Saturday  afternoon  all  alone,  stuffing  myself 
with  cake  and  jam?  " 

I  laughed  at  the  recollection,  though  Heaven 
knows  I  was  feeling  in  no  laughing  mood.  I 
had  found  him  with  an  array  of  pastry  spread 
out  before  him  sufficient  to  make  him  ill  for  a 
week,  and  I  had  boxed  his  ears,  and  had  thrown 
the  whole  collection  into  the  road. 

"  The  mater  gave  me  half  a  crown  a  week  for 
pocket-money,"  he  continued,  "  and  I  told  the 
fellows  I  had  only  a  shilling,  so  that  I  could 
gorge  myself  with  the  other  eighteen  pence  un- 
disturbed. Pah!  I  was  a  little  beast  even  in 
those  days!  " 

"  It  was  only  a  schoolboy  trick,"  I  argued, 
"  it  was  natural  enough." 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  and  this  is  only  a 
man's  trick,  and  is  natural  enough;  but  it's  go- 
ing to  ruin  my  life,  to  turn  me  into  a  beast 
instead  of  a  man.  Good  God!  do  you  think  I 
don't  know  what  that  woman  will  do  for  me? 
She  will  drag  me  down,  down,  down,  to  her  own 
level.  All  my  ideals,  all  my  ambition,  all  my 
life's  work  will  be  bartered  for  a  smug  practice 
among  paying  patients.  I  shall  scheme  and 


THE   CHOICE    OF  CYRIL  HARJOHN.  39 

plot  to  make  a  big  income  that  we  may  live 
like  a  couple  of  plump  animals,  that  we  may 
dress  ourselves  gaudily  and  parade  our  wealth. 
Nothing  will  satisfy  her;  such  women  are 
leeches;  their  only  cry  is  '  Give,  give,  give.'  So 
long  as  I  can  supply  her  with  money  she  will 
tolerate  me,  and  to  get  it  for  her,  I  shall  sell  my 
heart,  and  my  brain,  and  my  soul.  She  will 
load  herself  with  jewels,  and  go  about  from 
house  to  house,  half  naked,  to  leer  at  every  man 
she  comes  across — that  is  life  to  such  a  woman. 
And  I  shall  trot  behind  her,  the  laughing-stock 
of  every  fool,  the  contempt  of  every  man." 

His  vehemence  made  any  words  I  could  say 
sound  weak  before  they  were  uttered.  What 
argument  could  I  show  stronger  than  that  he 
had  already  put  before  himself.  I  knew  his 
answers  to  everything  I  could  urge. 

My  mistake  had  been  in  imagining  him  differ- 
ent from  other  men.  I  began  to  see  that  he  was 
like  the  rest  of  us — part  angel,  part  devil.  But 
the  new  point  he  revealed  to  me  was,  that  the 
higher  the  one,  the  lower  the  other.  It 
seems  as  if  nature  must  balance  her  work; 
the  nearer  the  leaves  to  heaven,  the  deeper 


40  THE   CHOICE   OF  CYRIL  HARJOHN. 

the  roots  striking  down  into  the  darkness. 
I  knew  that  his  passion  for  this  woman 
made  no  change  in  his  truer  love.  The  one 
was  a  spiritual,  the  other  a  mere  animal  pas- 
sion. The  memory  of  incidents  that  had 
puzzled  me  came  back  to  enlighten  me.  I  re- 
membered how  often  on  nights  when  I  had  sat 
up  late,  working,  I  had  heard  his  steps  pass  my 
door,  heavy  and  uncertain;  how  once  in  a  dingy 
quarter  of  London  I  had  met  one  who  had 
strangely  resembled  him.  I  had  followed  him 
to  speak,  but  the  man's  bleared  eyes  had  stared 
angrily  at  me,  and  I  turned  away,  calling  myself 
a  fool  for  my  mistake.  But  as  I  looked  at  the 
face  beside  me  now,  I  understood. 

And  then  there  rose  up  before  my  eyes  the 
face  I  knew  better,  the  eager,  noble  face 
that  to  merely  look  upon  had  been  good. 
We  had  reached  a  small,  evil-smelling  street 
leading  from  Leicester  Square  toward  Hoi- 
born.  I  caught  him  by  the  shoulders  and 
turned  him  round  with  his  back  against 
some  church  railings.  I  forget  what  I  said. 
We  are  strange  mixtures;  I  thought  of  the  shy, 
backward  boy  I  had  coached  and  bullied  at 


THE   CHOICE   OF  CYRIL  HARJOHN.  41 

old  Fauerberg's;  of  the  laughing,  handsome 
lad  I  had  watched  grow  into  manhood.  The 
very  restaurant  we  had  most  frequented 
in  his  old  Oxford  days — where  we  had  poured 
out  our  souls  to  one  another — was  in  this 
very  street  where  we  were  standing.  For 
the  moment  I  felt  toward  him  as  perhaps  his 
mother  might  have  felt;  I  wanted  to  scold  him 
and  to  cry  with  him;  to  shake  him  and  to  put 
my  arms  about  him.  I  pleaded  with  him,  and 
urged  him,  and  called  him  every  name  I  could 
put  my  tongue  to.  It  must  have  seemed  an 
odd  conversation.  A  passing  policeman,  mak- 
ing a  not  unnatural  mistake,  turned  his  bull's- 
eye  upon  us,  and  advised  us  sternly  to  go  home. 
We  laughed;  and  with  that  laugh  Cyril  came 
back  to  his  own  self,  and  we  walked  on  to  Staple 
Inn  more  soberly.  He  promised  me  to  go  away 
by  the  very  first  train  the  next  morning,  and  to 
travel  for  some  four  or  five  months,  and  I  under- 
took to  make  all  the  necessary  explanations  for 
him. 

We  both  felt  better  for  our  talk,  and  when  I 
wished  him  good-night  at  his  door,  it  was  the 
real  Cyril  Harjohn  whose  hand  I  gripped — the 


42  THE   CHOICE  OF  CYRIL  HARJOHN. 

real  Cyril  because  the  best  that  is  in  a  man  is 
his  real  self.  If  there  be  any  future  for  man 
beyond  this  world,  it  is  the  good  that  is  in  him 
that  will  live.  The  other  side  of  him  is  of  the 
earth;  it  is  that  he  will  leave  behind  him. 

He  kept  his  word.  In  the  morning  he  was 
gone,  and  I  never  saw  him  again.  I  had  many 
letters  from  him,  hopeful  at  first,  full  of  strong 
resolves.  He  told  me  he  had  written  Elspeth, 
not  telling  her  everything,  for  that  she  would 
not  understand,  but  so  much  as  would  explain; 
and  from  her  he  had  had  sweet  womanly  letters 
in  reply.  I  feared  she  might  have  been  cold  and 
unsympathetic,  for  often  good  women,  un- 
touched by  temptation  themselves,  have  small 
tenderness  for  those  who  struggle.  But  her 
goodness  was  something  more  than  a  mere  pas- 
sive quantity;  she  loved  him  the  better  because 
he  had  need  of  her.  I  believe  she  would  have 
saved  him  from  himself,  had  not  fate  interfered 
and  taken  the  matter  out  of  her  hands.  Women 
are  capable  of  big  sacrifices.  I  think  this  wo- 
man would  have  been  content  to  lower  herself, 
if  by  so  doing  she  could  have  raised  him. 

But  it  was  not  to  be.     From  India  he  wrote 


THE   CHOICE   OF  CYRIL   HARJOHN.  43 

me  that  he  was  coming  home.  I  had  not  met 
the  Fawley  woman  for  some  time,  and  she  had 
gone  out  of  my  mind  until  one  day,  chancing 
upon  a  theatrical  paper  some  weeks  old,  I  read 
that  "  Miss  Fawley  had  sailed  for  Calcutta  to 
fulfill  an  engagement  of  long  standing." 

I  had  his  last  letter  in  my  pocket;  I  sat  down 
and  worked  out  the  question  of  date.  She 
would  arrive  in  Calcutta  the  day  before  he  left. 
Whether  it  was  chance  or  intention  on  her  part 
I  never  knew;  as  likely  as  not  the  former,  for 
there  is  a  fatalism  in  this  world  shaping  our 
ends. 

I  heard  no  more  from  him ;  I  hardly  expected 
to  do  so;  but  three  months  later  a  mutual  ac- 
quaintance stopped  me  on  the  club  steps. 

"  Have  you  heard  the  news,"  he  said,  "  about 
young  Harjohn?  " 

"  No,"  I  replied.     "  Is  he  married?  " 

"  Married!  "  he  answered.  "  No,  poor  devil, 
he's  dead!" 

"  Thank  God !  "  was  on  my  lips,  but  fortun- 
ately I  checked  myself.  "  How  did  it  happen?  " 
I  asked. 

"  At  a  shooting  party,  up  at   some  rajah's 


44  THE   CHOICE   OF  CYRIL  HARJOHN. 

place.  Must  have  caught  his  gun  in  some 
brambles,  I  suppose.  The  bullet  went  clean 
through  his  head." 

"Dear  me!"  I  said;  "  how  very  sad !"  I 
could  think  of  nothing  else  to  say  at  the 
moment. 


BLASE    BILLY. 

|  T  was  toward  the  end  of  August.     He 
and  I  appeared  to  be  the  only  two 
men  left  to  the  club.     He  was  sit- 
ting by  an  open  window,  the  Times 
lying  on  the  floor  beside  him.     I  drew  my  chair 
a  little  closer  and  remarked: 
"  Good-morning!  " 

He  suppressed  a  yawn,  and  replied,  "  Morn- 
in'  " — dropping  the  "  g."  The  custom  was  just 
coming  into  fashion;  he  was  always  correct. 

"  Going  to  be  a  very  hot  day,  I  am  afraid," 
I  continued. 

"  'Fraid  so,"  was  the  response;  after  which 
he  turned  his  head  away,  and  gently  closed  his 
eyes. 

I  opined  that  conversation  was  not  to  his 
wish,  but  this  only  made  me  the  more  determined 
to  talk,  and  to  talk  to  him  above  all  others  in 
London.  The  desire  took  hold  of  me  to  irritate 

45 


46  BLASE   BILLY. 

him — to  break  down  the  imperturbable  calm 
within  which  he  moved  and  had  his  being;  and 
I  gathered  myself  together  and  settled  down  to 
the  task. 

"  Interesting  paper,  the  Times,"  I  observed. 

"  Very,"  he  replied,  taking  it  from  the  floor 
and  handing  it  to  me.  "  Won't  you  read  it?  " 

I  had  been  careful  to  throw  into  my  voice  an 
aggressive  cheerfulness  which  I  had  calculated 
would  vex  him,  but  his  manner  remained  that 
of  a  man  who  was  simply  bored.  I  argued  with 
him  politely  concerning  the  paper;  but  he  in- 
sisted, still  with  the  same  weary  air,  that  he 
had  done  with  it.  I  thanked  him  effusively.  I 
judged  that  he  hated  effusiveness. 

"  They  say  that  to  read  a  Times  leader,"  I 
persisted,  "  is  a  lesson  in  English  composition." 

"  So  I've  been  told,"  he  answered  tranquilly. 
"  Personally  I  don't  take  them." 

The  Times,  I  could  see,  was  not  going  to  be 
of  much  assistance  to  me.  I  lit  a  cigarette,  and 
remarked  that  he  was  not  shooting.  He  admit- 
ted the  fact.  Under  the  circumstances  it  would 
have  taxed  him  to  deny  it,  but  the  necessity  for 
confession  roused  him. 


BLASE  BILLY.  47 

"  To  myself,"  he  said,  "  a  tramp  through 
miles  of  mud,  in  company  with  four  gloomy 
men  in  black  velveteen,  a  couple  of  depressed 
looking  dogs,  and  a  heavy  gun — the  entire  cav- 
alcade being  organized  for  the  purpose  of  kill- 
ing some  twelve-and-sixpence  worth  of  poul- 
try— suggests  the  disproportionate." 

I  laughed  boisterously,  and  cried,  "  Good, 
good — very  good!"  He  was  the  type  of  man 
that  shudders  inwardly  at  the  sound  of  laughter. 
I  had  the  will  to  slap  him  on  the  back,  but  I 
thought  maybe  that  would  send  him  away 
altogether. 

I  asked  him  if  he  hunted.  He  replied  that 
fourteen  hours'  talk  a  day  about  horses,  and 
only  about  horses,  tired  him,  and  that  in  conse- 
quence he  had  abandoned  hunting. 

"You  fish?"  I  said. 

"  I  was  never  sufficiently  imaginative,"  he 
answered. 

"  You  travel  a  good  deal?  "  I  suggested. 

He  had  apparently  made  up  his  mind  to  aban- 
don himself  to  his  fate,  for  he  turned  toward 
me  with  a  resigned  air.  An  ancient  nurse  of 
mine  had  always  described  me  as  the  most 


48  BLASE 

11  wearing  "  child  she  had  ever  come  across.  I 
prefer  to  speak  of  myself  as  persevering. 

"  I  should  go  about  more,"  he  said,  "  were  I 
able  to  see  any  difference  between  one  place 
and  another." 

"  Tried  Central  Africa?  "  I  inquired. 

"Once  or  twice,"  he  answered;  "it  always 
reminds  me  of  Kew  Gardens." 

"  China?  "  I  hazarded. 

"  Cross  between  a  willow-pattern  plate  and  a 
New  York  slum,"  was  his  comment. 

"The  North  Pole?"  I  tried,  thinking  the 
third  time  might  be  lucky. 

"  Never  got  quite  up  to  it,"  he  returned. 
"  Reached  Cape  Hakluyt  once." 

"  How  did  that  impress  you?"  I  asked. 

"  It  didn't  impress  me,"  he  replied. 

The  talk  drifted  to  women  and  bogus  com- 
panies, dogs,  literature,  and  such  like  matters. 
I  found  him  well  informed  upon  and  bored  by 
all. 

"  They  used  to  be  amusing,"  he  said,  speak- 
ing of  the  first  named,  "  until  they  began  to 
take  themselves  seriously.  Now  they  are 
merely  silly." 


BLASE  BILLY.  49 

I  was  forced  into  closer  companionship  with 
"  Blase  Billy  "  that  autumn,  for,  by  chance,  a 
month  later  he  and  I  found  ourselves  the  guests 
of  the  same  delightful  hostess,  and  I  came  to 
liking  him  better.  He  was  a  useful  man  to  have 
about  one.  In  matters  of  fashion  one  could 
always  feel  safe  following  his  lead.  One  knew 
that  his  necktie,  his  collar,  his  socks,  if  not  the 
very  newest  departure,  were  always  correct; 
and  upon  social  paths,  as  guide,  philosopher, 
and  friend,  he  was  invaluable.  He  knew  every- 
one, together  with  his  or  her  previous  convic- 
tions. He  was  acquainted  with  every  woman's 
past,  and  shrewdly  surmised  every  man's  future. 
He  could  point  you  out  the  coal  shed  where  the 
Countess  of  Glenleman  had  gamboled  in  her 
days  of  innocence;  and  would  take  you  to 
breakfast  at  the  coffee  shop  off  the  Mile  End 
Road,  where  "  Sam  Smith,  Estd.  1820,"  own 
brother  to  the  world-famed  society  novelist, 
Smith-Stratford,  lived  an  uncriticised,  unpara- 
graphed,  unphotographed  existence  upon  the 
profits  of  "  rashers "  at  three-ha'pence  and 
"  doorsteps  "  at  two  a  penny.  He  knew  at  what 
houses  it  was  inadvisable  to  introduce  soap, 


50  BLASE  BILLY. 

and  at  what  tables  it  would  be  bad  form  to  de- 
nounce political  jobbery.  He  could  tell  you 
offhand  what  trade-mark  went  with  what 
crest,  and  remembered  the  price  paid  for  every 
baronetcy  created  during  the  last  twenty-five 
years. 

Regarding  himself,  he  might  have  laid  claim 
with  King  Charles  never  to  have  said  a  foolish 
thing,  and  never  to  have  done  a  wise  one.  He 
despised,  or  affected  to  despise,  most  of  his  fel- 
low-men, and  those  of  his  fellow-men  whose 
opinion  was  most  worth  having  unaffectedly 
despised  him. 

Shortly  described,  one  might  have  likened 
him  to  Gayety  Johnny  with  brains.  He  was 
capital  company  after  dinner,  but  in  the  early 
morning  one  avoided  him. 

So  I  thought  of  him  until  one  day  he  fell  in 
love;  or,  to  put  it  in  the  words  of  Teddy  Tid- 
marsh,  who  brought  the  news  to  us,  "  got 
mashed  on  Gerty  Lovell." 

"  The  red-haired  one,"  Teddy  explained,  to 
distinguish  her  from  her  sister,  who  had  lately 
adopted  the  newer  golden  shade. 

"Gerty     Lovell!"     exclaimed    the    captain; 


BLASE  BILLY.  51 

"  why,  I've  always  been  told  the  '  Lovell '  girls 
hadn't  a  penny  among  them." 

"  The  old  man's  stone  broke,  I  know  for  a 
certainty,"  volunteered  Teddy,  who  picked  up 
a  mysterious,  but  in  other  respects  satisfactory, 
income  in  an  office  near  Hatton  Garden,  and 
who  was  candor  itself  concerning  the  private 
affairs  of  everybody  but  himself. 

"  Oh,  some  rich  pork-packing  or  diamond- 
sweating  uncle  has  cropped  up  in  Australia  or 
America,  or  one  of  those  places,"  suggested  the 
captain,  "  and  Billy's  got  wind  of  it  in  good 
time.  Billy  knows  his  way  about," 

We  agreed  that  some  such  explanation  was 
needed,  though  in  all  other  respects  Gerty  Lov- 
ell was  just  the  girl  that  Reason  (not  always 
consulted  on  these  occasions)  might  herself 
have  chosen  for  "  Blase  Billy's  "  mate. 

The  sunlight  was  not  too  kind  to  her,  but  at 
evening  parties,  where  the  lighting  had  been 
well  considered,  I  have  seen  her  look  quite  girl- 
ish. At  her  best  she  was  not  beautiful,  but  at 
her  worst  there  was  about  her  an  air  of  breed- 
ing and  distinction  that  always  saved  her  from 
being  passed  over;  and  she  dressed  to  perfec- 


52  BLASE  BILLY. 

tion.  In  character  she  was  the  typical  society 
woman;  always  charming,  generally  insincere. 
She  went  to  Kensington  for  her  religion,  and  to 
Mayfair  for  her  morals;  accepted  her  literature 
from  Mudie's  and  her  art  from  the  Grosvenor 
Gallery;  and  could  and  would  gabble  philan- 
thropy, philosophy,  and  politics  with  equal 
fluency  at  every  five  o'clock  tea-table  she  vis- 
ited. Her  ideas  could  always  be  guaranteed  as 
the  very  latest,  and  her  opinion  as  that  of  the 
person  to  whom  she  was  talking.  Asked  by  a 
famous  novelist,  one  afternoon,  at  the  Pioneer 
Club,  to  give  him  some  idea  of  her,  little  Mrs. 
Bund,  the  painter's  wife,  had  remained  for  a 
few  moments  with  her  pretty  lips  pursed,  and 
had  then  said : 

"  She  is  a  woman  to  whom  life  could  bring 
nothing  more  fully  satisfying  than  a  dinner  in- 
vitation from  a  duchess,  and  whose  nature  would 
be  incapable  of  sustaining  deeper  suffering  than 
that  caused  by  an  ill-fitting  costume." 

At  the  time  I  should  have  said  the  epigram 
was  as  true  as  it  was  cruel,  but  I  suppose  we 
none  of  us  quite  know  each  other. 

I  congratulated  "  Blase  Billy  " — or,  to  drop 


BLASE  BILLY.  53 

his  club  nickname,  and  give  him  the  full  benefit 
of  his  social  label,  "  The  Honorable  William 
Cecil  Wychwood  Stanley  Drayton  " — on  the 
occasion  of  our  next  meeting,  which  happened 
upon  the  steps  of  the  Savoy  restaurant,  and  I 
thought — runless  a  quiver  of  electric  light  de- 
ceived me — that  he  blushed. 

"  Charming  girl,"  I  said.  "  You're  a  lucky 
dog,  Billy." 

It  was  the  phrase  that  custom  demands  upon 
such  occasions,  and  it  came  of  its  own  accord 
to  my  tongue,  without  costing  me  the  trouble 
of  composition,  but  he  seized  upon  it  as  though 
it  had  been  a  gem  of  friendly  sincerity. 

:'  You  will  like  her  even  more  when  you  know 
her  better,"  he  said.  "  She  is  so  different  from 
the  usual  woman  that  one  meets.  Come  and 
see  her  to-morrow  afternoon;  she  will  be  so 
pleased.  Go  about  four;  I  will  tell  her  to  ex- 
pect you." 

I  rang  the  bell  at  ten  minutes  past  five.  Billy 
was  there.  She  greeted  me  with  a  little  tremor 
of  embarrassment,  which  sat  oddly  upon  her, 
but  which  was  not  altogether  unpleasing.  She 
said  it  was  kind  of  me  to  come  so  early.  I 


54  BLASE  BILLY. 

stayed  for  about  half  an  hour,  but  conversation 
flagged,  and  some  of  my  cleverest  remarks  at- 
tracted no  attention  whatever. 

When  I  rose  to  take  my  leave,  Billy  said  that 
he  must  be  off  too,  and  that  he  would  accom- 
pany me.  Had  they  been  ordinary  lovers,  I 
should  have  been  careful  to  give  them  an  oppor- 
tunity of  making  their  adieus  in  secret;  but  in 
the  case  of  the  Honorable  William  Drayton 
and  the  eldest  Miss  Lovell  I  concluded  that  such 
tactics  were  needless,  so  I  waited  until  he  had 
shaken  hands,  and  went  downstairs  with  him. 

But  in  the  hall  Billy  suddenly  ejaculated,  "  By 
Jove!  Half  a  minute,"  and  ran  back  up  the 
stairs  three  at  a  time.  Apparently  he  found 
what  he  had  gone  for  on  the  landing,  for  I  did 
not  hear  the  opening  of  the  drawing-room  door. 
Then  the  Honorable  Billy  redescended  with  a 
sober,  nonchalant  air. 

"  Left  my  gloves  behind  me,"  he  explained, 
as  he  took  my  arm.  "  I  am  always  leaving  my 
gloves  about." 

I  did  not  mention  that  I  had  seen  him  take 
them  from  his  hat  and  slip  them  in  his  coat-tail 
pocket. 


BLAS&  BILLY.  55 

We  at  the  club  did  not  see  very  much  of  Billy 
during  the  next  three  months;  but  the  captain, 
who  prided  himself  upon  his  playing  of  the  rdle 
of  smoking-room  cynic, — though  he  would  have 
been  better  in  the  part  had  he  occasionally  dis- 
played a  little  originality, — was  of  opinion  that 
our  loss  would  be  more  than  made  up  to  us 
after  the  marriage.  Once  in  the  twilight  I 
caught  sight  of  a  figure  that  reminded  me  of 
Billy,  accompanied  by  a  figure  that  might  have 
been  that  of  the  eldest  Miss  Lovell;  but  as  the 
spot  was  Battersea  Park,  which  is  not  a  fashion- 
able evening  promenade,  and  the  two  figures 
were  holding  each  other's  hands,  the  whole  pic- 
ture being  suggestive  of  the  closing  chapter 
of  a  London  Journal  romance,  I  concluded  I  had 
made  an  error. 

But  I  did  see  them  in  the  Adelphi  stalls  one 
evening,  rapt  in,  a  sentimental  melodrama.  I 
joined  them  between  the  acts,  and  poked  fun  at 
the  play,  as  one  does  at  the  Adelphi,  but  Miss 
Lovell  begged  me  quite  earnestly  not  to  spoil 
her  interest,  and  Billy  wanted  to  enter  upon  a 
serious  argument  as  to  whether  a  man  was  jus- 
tified in  behaving  as  Will  Terriss  had  just  be- 


56  BLASE  BILLY. 

haved  toward  the  woman  he  loved.  I  left  them 
and  returned  to  my  own  party,  to  the  satisfac- 
tion, I  am  inclined  to  think,  of  all  concerned. 

They  married  in  due  course.  We  were  mis- 
taken on  one  point.  She  brought  Billy  noth- 
ing. But  they  both  seemed  quite  content  on 
his  not  too  extravagant  fortune.  They  took  a 
tiny  house  not  far  from  Victoria  Station,  and 
hired  a  brougham  for  the  season.  They  did  not 
entertain  very  much,  but  they  contrived  to  be 
seen  everywhere  it  was  right  and  fashionable 
they  should  be  seen.  The  Honorable  Mrs. 
Drayton  was  a  much  younger  and  brighter  per- 
son than  had  been  the  eldest  Miss  Lovell,  and, 
as  she  continued  to  dress  charmingly,  her  social 
position  rose  rapidly.  Billy  went  everywhere 
with  her,  and  evidently  took  a  keen  pride  in  her 
success.  It  was  even  said  that  he  designed  her 
dresses  for  her,  and  I  have  myself  seen  him 
earnestly  studying  the  costumes  in  Russell  & 
Allen's  windows. 

The  captain's  prophecy  remained  unfulfilled. 
"  Blase  Billy  " — if  the  name  could  still  be  ap- 
plied to  him — hardly  ever  visited  the  club  after 
his  marriage.  But  I  had  grown  to  like  him, 


J3LAS£  BILLY.  57 

and,  as  he  had  foretold,  to  like  his  wife.  I  found 
their  calm  indifference  to  the  burning  questions 
of  the  day  a  positive  relief  from  the  strenuous 
atmosphere  of  literary  and  artistic  circles.  In 
the  drawing  room  of  their  little  house  in  Eaton 
Row  the  comparative  merits  of  George  Mere- 
dith and  George  R.  Sims  were  not  considered 
worth  discussion.  Both  were  regarded  as  per- 
sons who  afforded  a  certain  amount  of  amuse- 
ment in  return  for  a  certain  amount  of  cash. 
And  on  any  Wednesday  afternoon  Henrick 
Ibsen  and  Arthur  Roberts  would  have  been 
equally  welcome,  as  adding  piquancy  to  the 
small  gathering.  Had  I  been  compelled  to  pass 
my  life  in  such  a  house,  this  Philistine  attitude 
might  have  palled  upon  me;  but  under  the  cir- 
cumstances it  refreshed  me,  and  I  made  use  of 
my  welcome,  which  I  believe  was  genuine,  to 
its  full  extent. 

As  months  went  by,  they  seemed  to  me  to 
draw  closer  to  one  another,  though  I  am  given 
to  understand  that  such  is  not  the  rule  in  fash- 
ionable circles.  One  evening  I  arrived  a  little 
before  my  time,  and  was  shown  up  into  the 
drawing  room  by  the  soft-footed  butler.  They 


58  BLASE  BILLY. 

were  sitting  in  the  dusk,  with  their  arms  round 
one  another.  It  was  impossible  to  withdraw, 
so  I  faced  the  situation  and  coughed.  A  pair 
of  middle-class  lovers  could  not  have  appeared 
more  awkward  or  surprised. 

But  the  incident  established  an  understand- 
ing between  us,  and  I  came  to  be  regarded  as  a 
friend  before  whom  there  was  less  necessity  to 
act. 

Studying  them,  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
the  ways  and  manners  of  Love  are  very  same- 
like  throughout  the  world,  as  though  the  fool- 
ish boy,  unheedful  of  human  advance,  kept  but 
one  school  for  minor  poet  and  East  End  shop- 
boy,  for  Girton  girl  and  little  milliner;  taught 
but  the  one  lesson  to  the  end-of-the-nineteenth- 
century  Johnny  that  he  taught  to  bearded  Pict 
and  Hun  four  thousand  years  ago. 

Thus  the  summer  and  the  winter  passed 
pleasantly  for  the  Honorable  Billy,  and  then, 
as  luck  would  have  it,  he  fell  ill  just  in  the  very 
middle  of  the  London  season,  when  invitations 
to  balls  and  dinner  parties,  luncheons  and  "  at 
homes,"  were  pouring  in  from  every  quarter, 
when  the  lawns  at  Hurlingham  were  at  their 
smoothest  and  the  paddocks  at  their  smartest. 


BLASE  BILLY.  59 

It  was  unfortunate,  too,  that  the  fashions 
that  season  suited  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Billy  as 
they  had  not  suited  her  for  years.  In  the  early 
spring  she  and  Billy  had  been  hard  at  work 
planning  costumes  calculated  to  cause  a  flutter 
through  Mayfair;  and  the  dresses  and  the  bon- 
nets— each  one  a  work  of  art — were  waiting  on 
their  stands  to  do  their  killing  work.  But  the 
Honorable  Mrs.  Billy,  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  had  lost  interest  in  such  things. 

Their  friends  were  genuinely  sorry,  for  so- 
ciety was  Billy's  element,  and  in  it  he  was  inter- 
esting and  amusing.  But,  as  Lady  Gower  said, 
there  was  no  earthly  need  for  his  wife  to  con- 
stitute herself  a  prisoner.  Her  shutting  her- 
self off  from  the  world  could  do  him  no  good, 
and  it  would  look  odd. 

Accordingly,  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Dray  ton, 
to  whom  oddness  was  a  crime,  and  the  voice  of 
Lady  Gower  as  the  voice  of  duty,  sacrificed  her 
inclinations  on  the  social  shrine,  laced  the  new 
costumes  tight  across  her  aching  heart,  and 
went  down  into  society. 

But  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Drayton  achieved 
not  the  success  of  former  seasons.  Her  small 
talk  grew  so  very  small  that  even  Park  Lane 


60  BLASE  BILLY. 

found  it  unsatisfying.  Her  famous  laugh  rang 
mechanically.  She  smiled  at  the  wisdom  of 
dukes,  and  became  sad  at  the  funny  stories  of 
millionaires.  Society  voted  her  a  good  wife, 
but  bad  company,  and  confined  its  attention  to 
cards  of  inquiry.  And  for  this  relief  the  Hon- 
orable Mrs.  Drayton  was  grateful,  for  Billy 
waned  weaker  and  weaker.  In  the  world  of 
shadows  in  which  she  moved  he  was  the  one 
thing  real.  She  was  of  very  little  practical  use, 
but  it  comforted  her  to  think  that  she  was  help- 
ing to  nurse  him. 

But  Billy  himself  it  troubled. 

"  I  do  wish  you  would  go  out  more,"  he 
would  say.  "  It  makes  me  feel  that  I'm  such  a 
selfish  brute,  keeping  you  tied  up  here  in  this 
dismal  little  house.  Besides,"  he  would  add, 
"  people  miss  you ;  they  will  hate  me  for  keep- 
ing you  away."  For,  where  his  wife  was  con- 
cerned, Billy's  knowledge  of  the  world  availed 
him  little.  He  really  thought  society  craved  for 
the  Honorable  Mrs.  Drayton,  and  would  not  be 
comforted  where  she  was  not. 

"  I  would  rather  stop  with  you,  dear,"  would 
be  the  answer;  "  I  don't  care  to  go  about  by 


BLASE  BILLY.  61 

myself.  You  must  get  well  quickly  and  take 
me." 

And  so  the  argument  continued,  until  one 
evening,  as  she  sat  by  herself,  the  nurse  entered 
softly,  closed  the  door  behind  her,  and  came 
over  to  her. 

"  I  wish  you  would  go  out  to-night,  ma'am," 
said  the  nurse,  "  just  for  an  hour  or  two.  I 
think  it  would  please  the  master;  he  is  worry- 
ing himself  because  he  thinks  it  is  his  fault  that 
you  do  not;  and  just  now" — the  woman  hesi- 
tated for  a  moment — "  just  now  I  want  to  keep 
him  very  quiet." 

"  Is  he  weaker,  nurse?  " 

"  Well,  he  is  not  stronger,  ma'am,  and  I 
thing — I  think  we  must  humor  him." 

The  Honorable  Mrs.  Drayton  rose,  and, 
crossing  to  the  window,  stood  for  a  while  look- 
ing out. 

"  But  where  am  I  to.  go,  nurse?  "  she  said  at 
length,  turning  with  a  smile.  "  I've  no  invita- 
tions anywhere." 

"  Can't  you  make  believe  to  have  one?  "  said 
the  nurse.  "  It  is  only  seven  o'clock.  Say  you 
are.  going  to  a  dinner  party;  you  can  come 


62  BLASE  BILLY. 

home  early  then.  Go  and  dress  yourself,  and 
come  down  and  say  good-by  to  him,  and  then 
come  in  again  about  eleven,  as  though  you  had 
just  returned." 

"  You  think  I  must,  nurse?  " 

"  I  think  it  would  be  better,  ma'am.  I  wish 
you  would  try  it." 

The  Honorable  Mrs.  Drayton  went  to  the 
door,  then  paused. 

"  He  has  such  sharp  ears,  nurse;  he  will  listen 
for  the  opening  of  the  door  and  the  sound  of  the 
carriage." 

"  I  will  see  to  that,"  said  the  nurse.  "  I  will 
tell  them  to  have  the  carriage  here  at  ten  min- 
utes to  eight.  Then  you  can  drive  to  the  end 
of  the  street,  slip  out,  and  walk  back.  I  will 
let  you  in  myself." 

"  And  about  coming  home?  "  asked  the  other 
woman. 

"  You  must  slip  out  a  few  minutes  before 
eleven,  and  the  carriage  must  be  waiting  for  you 
at  the  corner  again.  Leave  all  that  to  me." 

In  half  an  hour  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Drayton 
entered  the  sickroom,  radiant  in  evening  dress 
and  jewels.  Fortunately  the  lights  were  low, 


BLASE  BILLY.  63 

or  "  Blase  Billy  "  might  have  been  doubtful  as 
to  the  effect  his  wife  was  likely  to  produce. 
For  her  face  was  not  the  face  that  one  takes  to 
dinner  parties. 

"  Nurse  tells  me  you  are  going  to  the  Gre- 
villes'  this  evening.  I  am  so  glad.  I've  been 
worrying  myself  about  you — moped  up  here 
right  through  the  season." 

He  took  her  hands  in  his,  and  held  her  out  at 
arm's  length  from  him. 

"  How  handsome  you  look,  dear!  "  he  said. 
"  How  they  must  have  all  been  cursing  me  for 
keeping  you  shut  up  here,  like  a  princess  in  an 
ogre's  castle!  I  shall  never  dare  face  them 
again." 

She  laughed,  well  pleased  at  his  words.  "  I 
shall  not, be  late,"  she  said.  "  I  shall  be  so  anx- 
ious to  get  back  and  see  how  my  boy  has  be- 
haved. If  you  have  not  been  good,  I  shan't  go 
again." 

They  kissed  and  parted,  and  at  eleven  she  re- 
turned to  the  room.  She  told  him  what  a 
delightful  evening  it  had  been,  and  bragged  a 
little  of  her  own  success. 

The  nurse  told  her  that  he  had  been  more 


64  BLASE  BILLY. 

cheerful  that  evening  than  for  many  nights.  So 
every  day  the  farce  was  played  for  him.  One 
day  it  was  to  a  luncheon  that  she  went,  in  a 
costume  by  Redfern;  the  next  night,  to  a  ball, 
in  a  frock  direct  from  Paris;  again  to  an  "at 
home,"  or  concert,  or  dinner  party.  Loafers 
and  passers-by  would  stop  to  stare  at  a  haggard, 
red-eyed  woman,  dressed  as  for  a  drawing  room, 
slipping  thief-like  in  and  out  of  her  own  door. 

I  heard  them  talking  of  her  one  afternoon,  at 
a  house  where  I  called,  and  I  joined  the  group 
to  listen. 

"  I  always  thought  her  heartless,  but  I  gave 
her  credit  for  sense,"  a  woman  was  saying. 
"  One  doesn't  expect  a  wife  to  be  fond  of  her 
husband;  but  she  needn't  make  a  parade  of  ig- 
noring him  when  he  is  dying." 

I  pleaded  absence  from  town  to  inquire  what 
was  meant,  and  from  various  lips  I  heard  the 
same  account.  One  had  noticed  her  carriage 
at  the  door  two  or  three  evenings  in  succession. 
Another  had  seen  her  returning  home.  A  third 
had  seen  her  coming  out,  and  so  on. 

I  could  not  fit  the  fact  in  with  my  knowledge 
of  her,  so  the  next  evening  I  called.  The  door 
was  opened  instantly  by  herself. 


BLASE   BILLY.  65 

"  I  saw  you  from  the  window,"  she  said. 
"  Come  in  here;  don't  speak." 

I  followed  her,  and  she  closed  the  door  be- 
hind her.  She  was  dressed  in  a  magnificant 
costume,  her  hair  sparkling  with  diamonds;  and 
I  looked  my  questions. 

She  laughed  bitterly. 

"  I  am  supposed  to  be  at  the  opera  to-night," 
she  explained.  "  Sit  down,  if  you  have  a  few 
minutes  to  spare." 

I  said  it  was  for  a  talk  that  I  had  come;  and 
there,  in  the  dark  room,  lighted  only  by  the 
street  lamp  without,  she  told  me  all.  And  at 
the  end  she  dropped  her  head  on  to  her  bare 
arms;  and  I  turned  away  and  looked  out  of  the 
window  for  a  while. 

"  I  feel  so  ridiculous,"  she  said,  rising  and 
coming  toward  me.  "  I  sit  here  all  the  even- 
ing dressed  like  this.  I'm  afraid  I  don't  act 
my  part  very  well;  but,  fortunately,  dear  Billy 
never  was  much  of  a  judge  of  art,  and  it  is  good 
enough  for  him.  I  tell  him  the  most  awful 
lies  about  what  everybody  has  said  to  me,  and 
what  I've  said  to  everybody,  and  how  my  gowns 
were  admired.  What  do  you  think  of  this 
one?  " 


66  BLASE  BILLY. 

For  answer  I  took  the  privilege  of  a  friend. 

"  I'm  glad  you  think  well  of  me,"  she  said. 
"  Billy  has  such  a  high  opinion  of  you.  You 
will  hear  some  funny  tales.  I'm  glad  you 
know." 

I  had  to  leave  London  again,  and  Billy  died 
before  I  returned.  I  heard  that  she  had  to  be 
fetched  from  a  ball,  and  was  only  just  in  time  to 
touch  his  lips  before  they  were  cold.  But  her 
friends  excused  her  by  saying  that  the  end  had 
come  very  suddenly. 

I  called  on  her  a  little  later,  and  before  I  left 
I  hinted  to  her  what  people  were  saying,  and 
asked  her  if  I  had  not  better  tell  them  the  truth. 

"  I  would  rather  you  didn't,"  she  answered. 
"  It  seems  like  making  public  the  secret  side  of 
one's  life." 

"  But,"  I  urged,  "  they  will  think " 

She  interrupted  me. 

"  Does  it  matter  very  much  what  they 
think?  " 

Which  struck  me  as  a  very  remarkable  senti- 
ment, coming  from  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Dray- 
ton,  nee  the  elder  Miss  Lovell, 


PORTRAIT    OF   A    LADY. 

Y  work  pressed  upon  me,  but  the 
louder  it  challenged  me — such  is  the 
heart  of  the  timid  fighter — the  less 
stomach  I  felt  for  the  contest.  I 
wrestled  with  it  in  my  study,  only  to  be  driven 
to  my  books.  I  walked  out  to  meet  it  in  the 
streets,  only  to  seek  shelter  from  it  in  music- 
hall  or  theater.  Thereupon  it  waxed  importu- 
nate and  overbearing,  till  the  shadow  of  it 
darkened  all  my  doings.  The  thought  of  it  sat 
beside  'me  at  table,  and  spoiled  my  appetite. 
The  memory  of  it  followed  me  abroad,  and  stood 
between  me  and  my  friends,  so  that  all  talk  died 
upon  my  lips,  and  I  moved  among  men  as  one 
ghost-ridden. 

Then  the  throbbing  town,  with  its  thousand 
distracting  voices,  grew  maddening  to  me.  I 
felt  the  need  of  converse  with  solitude,  that 
master  and  teacher  of  all  the  arts,  and  I  be- 
thought me  of  the  Yorkshire  Wolds,  where  a 

67 


68  PORTRAIT  OF  A    LADY. 

man  may  walk  all  day,  meeting  no  human  crea- 
ture, hearing  no  voice  but  the  curlew's  cry; 
where,  lying  prone  upon  the  sweet  grass,  he  may 
feel  the  pulsation  of  the  earth,  traveling  its 
eleven  hundred  miles  a  minute  through  the 
ether.  So,  one  morning,  I  bundled  many 
things,  some  needful,  more  needless,  into  a  bag, 
hurrying  lest  somebody  or  something  should 
happen  to  stay  me;  and  that  night  I  lay  in  a 
small  northern  town  that  stands  upon  the 
borders  of  smokedom,  at  the  gate  of  .the  great 
moors;  and  at  seven  the  next  morning  I  took 
my  seat  beside  a  one-eyed  carrier,  behind  an 
ancient  piebald  mare.  The  one-eyed  carrier 
cracked  his  whip,  the  piebald  horse  jogged  for- 
ward; the  nineteenth  century,  with  its  turmoil, 
fell  away  behind  us;  the  distant  hills,  creeping 
nearer,  swallowed  us  up,  and  we  became  but 
a  moving  speck  upon  the  face  of  the  quiet  earth. 
Late  in  the  afternoon  we  arrived  at  the  vil- 
lage, the  memory  of  which  had  been  growing  in 
my  mind.  It  lies  in  the  triangle  formed  by  the 
sloping  walls  of  three  great  fells;  and  not  even 
the  telegraph  wire  has  reached  it  yet,  to  mur- 
mur to  it  whispers  of  the  restless  world — or  had 


PORTRAIT  OF  A    LADY.  69 

not,  at  the  time  of  which  I  write.  Nought  dis- 
turbs it  save,  once  a  day,  the  one-eyed  carrier — 
if  he  and  his  piebald  mare  have  not  yet  laid  their 
ancient  bones  to  rest — who,  passing  through, 
leaves  a  few  letters  and  parcels  to  be  called  for 
by  the  people  of  the  scattered  hill-farms  round 
about.  It  is  the  meeting-place  of  two  noisy 
brooks.  Through  the  sleepy  days  and  the 
hushed  nights,  one  hears  them  ever  chattering 
to  themselves  as  children  playing  alone  some 
game  of  make-believe.  Coming  from  their  far- 
off  homes  among  the  hills,  they  mingle  their 
waters  here,  and  journey  on  in  company,  and 
then  their  converse  is  more  serious,  as  becomes 
those  who  have  joined  hands  and  are  moving 
onward  through  life  together.  Later  they  reach 
sad,  weary  towns,  black  beneath  a  never-lifted 
pall  of  smoke  where,  day  and  night,  the  clang 
of  iron  drowns  all  human  voices;  where  the  chil- 
dren play  with  ashes,  where  the  men  and  women 
have  dull,  patient  faces;  and  so  on,  muddy  and 
stained,  to  the  deep  sea  that  ceaselessly  calls  to 
them.  Here,  however,  their  waters  are  fresh 
and  clear,  and  their  passing  makes  the  only  stir 
that  the  valley  has  ever  known.  Surely  of  all 


?o  PORTRAIT  OF  A    LADY. 

peaceful  places,  this  was  the  one  where  a  tired 
worker  might  find  strength. 

My  one-eyed  friend  had  suggested  I  should 
seek  lodgings  at  the  house  of  one  Mistress 
Cholmondley,  a  widow  lady,  who  resided  with 
her  only  daughter  in  the  white-washed  cottage 
that  is  the  last  house  in  the  village,  if  you  take 
the  road  that  leads  over  Coll  Fell. 

"  Tha'  can  see  th'  house  from  here,  by  reason 
o'  its  standing  so  high  above  t'others,"  said  the 
carrier,  pointing  with  his  whip.  "  It's  theer  or 
nowhere,  aw'm  thinking,  for  folks  don't  often 
coom  seeking  lodgings  in  these  parts." 

The  tiny  dwelling,  half  smothered  in  June 
roses,  looked  idyllic ;  and,  after  a  lunch  of  bread 
and  cheese  at  the  little  inn,  I  made  my  way  to 
it  by  the  path  that  passes  through  the  church- 
yard. I  had  conjured  up  the  vision  of  a  stout, 
pleasant,  comfort-radiating  woman,  assisted  by 
some  bright,  fresh  girl,  whose  rosy  cheeks  and 
sunburned  hands  would  help  me  banish  from  my 
mind  all  clogging  recollections  of  the  town;  and 
hopeful,  I  pushed  back  the  half-opened  door  and 
entered. 

The  cottage  was  furnished  with  a  taste  that 


PORTRAIT  OF  A    LADY.  71 

surprised  me,  but  in  themselves,  my  hosts  dis- 
appointed me.  My  bustling,  comely  house- 
wife turned  out  a  wizened,  blear-eyed  dame. 
All  day  long  she  dozed  in  her  big  chair,  or 
crouched  with  shriveled  hands  spread  out  be- 
fore the  fire.  My  dream  of  winsome  maiden- 
hood vanished  before  the  reality  of  a  weary- 
looking,  sharp-featured  woman  of  between  forty 
and  fifty.  Perhaps  there  had  been  a  time  when 
the  listless  eyes  had  sparkled  with  roguish 
merriment,  when  the  shriveled,  tight-drawn  lips 
had  pouted  temptingly;  but  spinsterhood  does 
not  sweeten  the  juices  of  a  woman,  and  strong 
country  air,  though,  like  old  ale,  it  is  good  when 
taken  occasionally,  dulls  the  brain  if  lived  upon. 
A  narrow,  uninteresting  woman  I  found  her; 
troubled  with  a  shyness  that  sat  ludicrously 
upon  her  age,  and  that  yet  failed  to  save  her 
from  the  landlady's  customary  failing  of  lo- 
quacity concerning  "  better  days,"  together 
with  an  irritating,  if  harmless,  affectation  of 
youthfulness. 

All  other  details  were,  however,  most  satis- 
factory; and  at  the  window  commanding  the 
road  that  leads  through  the  valley  toward  the 


72  PORTRAIT  OF  A   LADY. 

distant  world,  I  settled  down  to  face  my 
work. 

But  the  spirit  of  industry,  once  driven  forth, 
returns  with  coy  steps.  I  wrote  for  perhaps  an 
hour;  and  then  throwing  down  my  halting  pen, 
I  looked  about  the  room,  seeking  distraction. 
A  Chippendale  bookcase  stood  against  the  wall, 
and  I  strolled  over  to  it.  The  key  was  in  the 
lock,  and,  opening  its  glass  doors,  I  examined 
the  well-filled  shelves.  They  held  a  curious 
collection:  Miscellanies  with  quaint,  glazed 
bindings;  novels  and  poems,  whose  authors  I 
had  never  heard  of;  old  magazines  long  dead, 
their  very  names  forgotten;  "  Keepsakes  "  and 
Annuals,  redolent  of  an  age  of  vastly  pretty 
sentiments  and  lavender-colored  silks.  On  the 
top  shelf,  however,  was  a  volume  of  Keats, 
wedged  between  a  number  of  the  Evangelical 
Rambler  and  Young's  "  Night  Thoughts,"  and 
standing  on  tip-toe,  I  sought  to  draw  it  from 
its  place. 

The  book  was  jammed  so  tightly  that  my 
efforts  brought  two  or  three  others  tumbling 
about  me,  covering  me  with  a  cloud  of  fine  dust ; 
and  to  my  feet  there  fell,  with  a  rattle  of  glass 


PORTRAIT  OF  A   LADY.  73 

and  metal,  a  small  miniature  painting,  framed 
in  black  wood. 

I  picked  it  up,  and,  taking  it  to  the  window, 
examined  it.  It  was  the  picture  of  a  young- 
girl,  dressed  in  the  fashion  of  thirty  years 
ago — I  mean  thirty  years  ago  then.  I 
fear  it  must  be  nearer  fifty,  speaking  as 
from  now — when  our  grandmothers  wore 
corkscrew  curls  and  low-cut  bodices  that  one 
wonders  how  they  kept  from  slipping  down. 
The  face  was  beautiful,  not  merely  with  the  con- 
ventional beauty  of  tiresome  regularity  and  im- 
possible coloring,  such  as  one  finds  in  all  minia- 
tures, but  with  soul  behind  the  soft  deep  eyes. 
As  I  gazed  the  sweet  lips  seemed  to  laugh  at 
me,  and  yet  there  lurked  a  sadness  in  the  smile, 
as  though  the  artist,  in  some  rare  moment,  had 
seen  the  coming  shadow  of  life  across  the  sun- 
shine of  the  face.  Even  my  small  knowledge  of 
art  told  me  that  the  work  was  clever,  and  I 
wondered  why  it  should  have  lain  so  long 
neglected,  when  as  a  mere  ornament  it  was 
valuable.  It  must  have  been  placed  in  the 
bookcase  years  ago  by  someone,  and  forgotten. 

I  replaced  it  among  its  dusty  companions, 


74  PORTRAIT  OF  A   LADY. 

and  sat  down  once  more  to  my  work.  But  be- 
tween me  and  the  fading  light  came  the  face  of 
the  miniature,  and  would  not  be  banished. 
Wherever  I  turned  it  looked  out  at  me  from  the 
shadows.  I  am  not  naturally  fanciful,  and  the 
work  I  was  engaged  upon,  the  writing  of  a  farci- 
cal comedy,  was  not  of  the  kind  to  excite  the 
dreamy  side  of  a  man's  nature.  I  grew  angry 
with  myself,  and  made  a  further  effort  to  fix  my 
mind  upon  the  paper  in  front  of  me.  But  my 
thoughts  refused  to  return  from  their  wander- 
ings. Once,  glancing  back  over  my  shoulder,  I 
could  have  sworn  I  saw  the  original  of  the  pic- 
ture sitting  in  the  big  chintz-covered  chair  in 
the  far  corner.  It  was  dressed  in  a  faded  lilac 
frock,  trimmed  with  some  old  lace,  and  I  could 
.  not  help  noticing  the  beauty  of  the  folded  hands, 
though  in  the  portrait  only  the  head  and  shoul- 
ders had  been  drawn. 

Next  morning  I  had  forgotten  the  incident, 
but  with  the  lighting  of  the  lamp  the  memory  of 
it  awoke  within  me,  and  my  interest  grew  so 
strong  that  again  I  took  the  miniature  from  its 
hiding-place  and  looked  at  it. 

And  then  the  knowledge  suddenly  came  to 


I  COULD  HAVE   SWORN  I  SAW  THE   ORIGINAL 


PORTRAIT  OF  A    LADY.  75 

me  that  I  knew  the  face.  Where  had  I  seen 
her,  and  when?  I  had  met  her  and  spoken  to 
her.  The  picture  smiled  at  me,  as  if  rallying  me 
on  my  forgetfulness.  I  put  it  back  upon  its 
shelf,  and  sat  racking  my  brains,  trying  to  recol- 
lect; we  had  met  somewhere — in  the  country — 
a  long  time  ago,  and  had  talked  of  commonplace 
things.  To  the  vision  of  her  clung  the  scent  of 
roses  and  the  murmuring  voices  of  haymakers. 
Why  had  I  never  seen  her  again?  Why  had 
she  passed  so  completely  out  of  my  mind? 

My  landlady  entered  to  lay  my  supper,  and  I 
questioned  her,  assuming  a  careless  tone. 
Reason  with  or  laugh  at  myself  as  I  would,  this 
shadowy  memory  was  becoming  a  romance  to 
me,  it  was  as  though  I  were  talking  of  some 
loved,  dead  friend,  even  to  speak  of  whom  to 
commonplace  people  was  a  sacrilidge.  I  did  not 
want  the  woman  to  question  me  in  return. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  answered  my  landlady.  Ladies 
had  often  lodged  with  her.  Sometimes  people 
stayed  the  whole  summer,  wandering  about  the 
woods  and  fells;  but  to  her  thinking  the  great 
hills  were  lonely.  Some  of  her  lodgers  had  been 
young  ladies,  but  she  could  not  remember  any 


76  PORTRAIT  OF  A    LADY. 

of  them  having  impressed  her  with  their  beauty. 
But  then  it  was  said  women  were  never  a  judge 
of  other  women.  They  had  come  and  gone. 
Few  had  ever  returned;  and  fresh  faces  drove 
out  the  old. 

"  You  have  been  letting  lodgings  for  a  long 
time?  "  I  asked.  "  I  suppose  it  could  be  fifteen 
— twenty  years  ago  that  strangers  to  you  lived 
in  this  room?  " 

"  Longer  than  that,"  she  said  quietly,  drop- 
ping, for  the  moment,  all  affectation.  "  We 
came  here  from  the  farm  when  my  father  died. 
He  had  had  losses,  and  there  was  but  little  left. 
That  is  twenty-seven  years  ago  now." 

I  hastened  to  close  the  conversation,  fearing 
long-winded  recollections  of  "  better  days."  I 
have  heard  such  so  often  from  one  landlady  and 
another.  I  had  not  learned  much.  Who  was 
the  original  of  the  miniature,  how  it  came  to  be 
lying  forgotten  in  the  dusty  bookcase,  were  still 
mysteries;  and,  with  a  strange  perversity  I  could 
not  have  explained  to  myself,  I  shrank  from  put- 
ting a  direct  question. 

So  two  days  more  passed  by.  My  work  took 
gradually  a  firmer  grip  upon  my  mind,  and  the 


PORTRAIT  OF  A   LADY.  77 

face  of  the  miniature  visited  me  less  often.  But 
in  the  evening  of  the  third  day,  which  was  Sun- 
day, a  curious  thing  happened. 

I  was  returning  from  a  stroll,  and  dusk  was 
falling  as  I  reached  the  cottage.  I  had  been 
thinking  of  my  farce,  and  I  was  laughing  to  my- 
self at  a  situation  that  seemed  to  me  comical, 
when,  passing  the  window  of  my  room,  I  saw 
looking  out,  the  sweet,  fair  face  that  had  become 
so  familiar  to  me.  It  stood  close  to  the 
latticed  panes,  a  slim,  girlish  figure,  clad  in  the 
old-fashioned  lilac-colored  frock  in  which  I 
had  imagined  it  on  the  first  night  of  my  arrival, 
the  beautiful  hands  clasped  across  the  breast, 
as  then  they  had  been  folded  on  the  lap.  Her 
eyes  were  gazing  down  the  road  that  passes 
through  the  village  and  goes  south;  but  they 
seemed  to  be  dreaming,  not  seeing,  and  the  sad- 
ness in  them  struck  upon  one  almost  as  a  cry. 
I  was  close  to  the  window,  but  the  hedge 
screened  me,  and  I  remained  watching,  until, 
after  a  minute,  I  suppose,  though  it  appeared 
longer,  the  figure  drew  back  into  the  darkness 
of  the  room  and  disappeared. 

I  entered,  but  the  room  was  empty.     I  called, 


7  8  PORTRAIT  OF  A   LADY. 

but  no  one  answered.  The  uncomfortable  sug- 
gestion took  hold  of  me  that  I  must  be  growing 
a  little  crazy.  All  that  had  gone  before  I  could 
explain  to  myself  as  a  mere  train  of  thought,  but 
this  time  it  had  come  to  me  suddenly — unin- 
vited, while  my  thoughts  had  been  busy  else- 
where. This  thing  had  appeared  not  to  my 
brain  but  to  my  senses.  I  am  not  a  believer  in 
ghosts,  but  I  am  in  the  hallucinations  of  a 
weak  mind,  and  my  own  explanation  was,  in 
consequence,  not  very  satisfactory  to  myself. 

I  tried  to  dismiss  the  incident,  but  it  would 
not  leave  me;  and  later  that  same  evening  some- 
thing else  occurred  that  fixed  it  still  clearer  in 
my  thoughts.  I  had  taken  out  two  or  three 
books  at  random  with  which  to  amuse  myself, 
and  turning  over  the  leaves  of  one  of  them,  a 
volume  of  verses  by  some  obscure  poet,  I  found 
its  sentimental  passages  much  scored  and  com- 
mented upon  in  pencil,  as  was  common  fifty 
years  ago — as  may  be  common  now,  for  your 
Fleet  Street  cynic  has  not  altered  the  world  and 
its  ways  to  quite  the  extent  that  he  imagines. 

One  poem  in  particular  had  evidently  ap- 
pealed greatly  to  the  reader's  sympathies.  It 


PORTRAIT  OF  A   LADY.  79 

was  the  old,  old  story  of  the  gallant  who  woos 
and  rides  away,  leaving  the  maiden  to  weep. 
The  poetry  was  poor,  and  at  another  time  its 
conventionality  would  have  excited  only  my 
ridicule.  But,  reading  it  in  conjunction  with 
the  quaint  naive  notes  scattered  about  its  mar- 
gins, I  felt  no  inclination  to  jeer.  These  hack- 
neyed stories  that  we  laugh  at  are  deep  pro- 
fundities to  the  many  who  find  in  them  some 
shadow  of  their  own  sorrows,  and  she — for  it 
was  a  woman's  handwriting — to  whom  this 
book  belonged  had  loved  its  trite  verses  because 
in  them  she  had  read  her  own  heart.  This,  I 
told  myself,  was  her  story  also;  a  common 
enough  story  in  life  as  in  literature;  but  novel 
to  those  who  live  it. 

There  was  no  reason  for  my  connecting  her 
with  the  original  of  the  miniature,  except,  per- 
haps, a  subtle  relationship  between  the  thin, 
nervous  handwriting  and  the  mobile  features; 
yet  I  felt  instinctively  they  were  one  and  the 
same,  and  that  I  was  tracing,  link  by  link,  the 
history  of  my  forgotten  friend. 

I  felt  urged  to  probe  further,  and  next  morn- 
ing, while  my  landlady  was  clearing  away  my 


8o  PORTRAIT  OF  A    LADY, 

breakfast  things,  I  fenced  round  the  subject 
once  again. 

"  By  the  way,"  I  said,  "  while  I  think  of  it, 
if  I  leave  any  books  or  papers  here  behind  me, 
send  them  on  at  once.  I  have  a  knack  of  doing 
that  sort  of  thing.  I  suppose,"  I  added,  "  your 
lodgers  often  do  leave  some  of  their  belongings 
behind  them." 

It  sounded  to  myself  a  clumsy  ruse.  I  won- 
dered if  she  would  suspect  what  was  behind  it. 

"Not  often,"  she  answered;  "never,  that  I 
can  remember,  except  in  the  case  of  one  poor 
lady  who  died  here." 

I  glanced  up  quickly.  "  In  this  room?  "  I 
asked. 

My  landlady  seemed  troubled  at  my  tone. 
"  Well,  not  exactly  in  this  very  room.  We  car- 
ried her  upstairs,  but  she  died  immediately. 
She  was  dying  when  she  came  here.  I  should 
not  have  taken  her  in  had  I  known.  So  many 
people  are  prejudiced  against  a  house  where 
death  has  occurred,  as  if  there  were  anywhere 
it  had  not.  It  was  not  quite  fair  to  us." 

I  did  not  speak  for  a  while,  and  the  rattle  of 
the  plates  and  knives  continued  undisturbed. 


PORTRAIT  OF  A    LADY.  81 

"  What  did  she  leave  here? "  I  asked  at 
length. 

"  Oh,  just  a  few  books  and  photographs,  and 
such-like  small  things  that  people  bring  with 
them  to  lodgings,"  was  the  reply.  "  Her  peo- 
ple promised  to  send  for  them,  but  they  never 
did,  and  I  suppose  I  forgot  them.  They  were 
not  of  any  value." 

The  woman  turned  as  she  was  leaving  the 
room.  "  It  won't  drive  you  away,  sir,  I  hope, 
what  I  have  told  you,"  she  said.  "  It  all  hap- 
pened a  long  while  ago." 

"  Of  course  not,"  I  answered.  "  It  inter- 
ested me,  that  was  all."  And  the  woman  went 
out,  closing  the  door  behind  her. 

So  here  was  the  explanation,  if  I  chose  to  ac- 
cept it.  I  sat  long  that  morning,  wondering  to 
myself  whether  things  I  had  learned  to  laugh  at 
could  be  after  all  realities.  And  a  day  or  two 
afterward  I  made  a  discovery  that  confirmed  all 
my  vague  surmises. 

Rummaging  through  this  same  dusty  book- 
case, I  found  in  one  of  the  ill-fitting  drawers, 
beneath  a  heap  of  torn  and  tumbled  books,  a 
diary,  belonging  to  the  fifties,  stuffed  with  many 


82  PORTRAIT  OF  A    LADY. 

letters  and  shapeless  flowers,  pressed  between 
stained  pages;  and  there — for  the  writer  of 
stories,  tempted  by  human  documents,  is  weak 
— in  faded  ink,  brown  and  withered  like  the 
flowers,  I  read  the  story  I  already  knew. 

Such  a  very  old  story  it  was,  and  so  con- 
ventional. He  was  an  artist — was  ever  story  of 
this  type  written  where  the  hero  was  not  an 
artist?  They  had  been  children  together,  lov- 
ing each  other  without  knowing  it  till,  one 
day,  it  was  revealed  to  them.  Here  is  the 
entry: 

"  May  1 8.  I  do  not  know  what  to  say  or  how 
I  shall  begin.  Chris  loves  me.  I  have  been 
praying  to  God  to  make  me  worthy  of  him,  and 
dancing  round  the  room  in  my  bare  feet  for  fear 
of  waking  them  below.  He  kissed  my  hands 
and  clasped  them  round  his  neck,  saying  they 
were  beautiful  as  the  hands  of  a  goddess,  and  he 
knelt  and  kissed  them  again.  I  am  holding 
them  before  me  and  kissing  them  myself.  I  am 
glad  they  are  so  beautiful.  O  God,  why  are  you 
so  good  to  me?  Help  me  to  be  a  true  wife  to 
him.  Help  me  that  I  may  never  give  him  an 
instant's  pain!  Oh,  that  I  had  more  power  of 


HE  KISSED   MY  HANDS 


PORTRAIT  OF  A   LADY.  83 

loving,  that  I  might  love  him  better  " — and  thus 
foolish  thoughts  for  many  pages,  but  foolish 
thoughts  of  the  kind  that  has  kept  this  worn 
old  world,  hanging  for  so  many  ages  in  space, 
from  turning  sour. 

Later,  in  February,  there  is  another  entry  that 
carries  on  the  story: 

''  Chris  left  this  morning.  He  put  a  little 
packet  into  my  hands  at  the  last  moment,  say- 
ing it  was  the  most  precious  thing  he  possessed, 
and  that  when  I  looked  at  it  I  was  to  think  of 
him  who  loved  it.  Of  course  I  guessed  what  it 
was,  but  I  did  not  open  it  till  I  was  alone  in  my 
room.  It  was  the  picture  of  myself  that  he  had 
been  so  secret  about,  but  oh,  so  beautiful!  I 
wonder  if  I  am  really  as  beautiful  as  this.  But 
I  wish  he  had  not  made  me  look  so  sad.  I  am 
kissing  the  little  lips.  I  love  them,  because  he 
loved  to  kiss  them.  Oh,  sweetheart!  it  will  be 
long  before  you  kiss  them  again.  Of  course,  it 
was  right  for  him  to  go,  and  I  am  glad  he  has 
been  able  to  manage  it.  He  could  not  study 
properly  in  this  quiet  country  place,  and  now  he 
will  be  able  to  go  to  Paris  and  Rome,  and  he  will 
be  great.  Even  the  stupid  people  here  see  how 


84  PORTRAIT  OF  A    LADY. 

clever  he  is.     But,  oh,  it  will  be  so  long  before 
I  see  him  again,  my  love!  my  king!  " 

With  each  letter  that  comes  from  hjm  simi- 
lar foolish  rhapsodies  are  written  down,  but 
these  letters,  I  gather  as  I  turn  the  pages,  grow 
after  a  while  colder  and  fewer,  and  a  chill  fear 
that  dare  not  be  penned  creeps  in  among  the 
words. 

"  March  I2th.  Six  weeks  and  no  letter  from 
Chris,  and  oh,  dear,  I  am  so*  hungry  for  one,  for 
the  last  I  have  almost  kissed  to  pieces.  I  sup- 
pose he  will  write  more  often  when  he  gets  to 
London.  He  is  working  hard,  I  know,  and  it 
is  selfish  of  me  to  expect  him  to  write  more 
often;  but  I  would  sit  up  all  night  for  a  week 
rather  than  miss  writing  to  him.  I  suppose 
men  are  not  like  that.  Oh,  God  help  me — help 
me,  whatever  happens!  How  foolish  I  am  to- 
night! He  was  always  careless.  I  will  punish 
him  for  it  when  he  conies  back,  but  not  very 
much." 

Truly  enough  a  conventional  story. 

Letters  do  come  from  him  after  that,  but  ap- 
parently they  are  less  and  less  satisfactory,  for 
the  diary  grows  angry  and  bitter,  and  the  faded 


PORTRAIT  OF  A    LADY.  85 

writing  is  blotted  at  times  with  tears.  Then 
toward  the  end  of  another  year  there  comes 
this  entry,  written  in  a  kind  of  strange  neatness 
and  precision: 

"  It  is  all  over  now.  I  am  glad  it  is  finished. 
I  have  written  to  him,  giving  him  up.  I  have 
told  him  I  have  ceased  to  care  for  him,  and  that 
it  is  better  we  should  both  be  free.  It  is  best 
that  way.  He  would  have  had  to  ask  me  to  re- 
lease him,  and  that  would  have  given  him  pain. 
He  was  always  gentle.  Now  he  will  be  able  to 
marry  her  with  an  easy  conscience,  and  he  need 
never  know  what  I  have  suffered.  She  is  more 
fitted  for  him  than  I  am.  I  hope  he  will  be 
happy.  I  think  I  have  done  the  right  thing." 

A  few  lines  follow,  left  blank,  and  then  the 
writing  is  resumed,  but  in  a  stronger,  more 
vehement  hand. 

"Why  do  I  lie  to  myself?  I  hate  her!  I 
would  kill  her  if  I  could.  I  hope  she  will  make 
him  wretched,  and  that  he  will  come  to  hate 
her  as  I  do,  and  that  she  will  die!  Why  did  I 
let  them  persuade  me  to  send  that  lying  letter? 
He  will  show  it  to  her,  and  she  will  see  througTi 
it  and  laugh  at  me.  I  could  have  held  him  to 


86  PORTRAIT  OF  A   LADY. 

his  promise.  He  could  not  have  got  out  of  it. 
What  do  I  care  about  dignity,  and  womanliness, 
and  right,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  canting  words! 
I  want  him.  I  want  his  kisses  and  his  arms 
about  me.  He  is  mine!  He  loved  me  once!  I 
have  only  given  him  up  because  I  thought  it 
a  fine  thing  to  play  the  saint.  It  is  only  an 
acted  lie.  I  would  rather  be  evil  and  he  loved 
me.  Why  do  I  deceive  myself?  I  want  him. 
I  care  for  nothing  else  at  the  bottom  of  my 
heart — his  love,  his  kisses!  "  And,  toward  the 
end:  "  My  God,  what  am  I  saying!  Have  I 
no  shame,  no  strength?  Oh,  God  help  me!  " 

And  there  the  diary  closes. 

I  looked  among  the  letters  lying  between  the 
pages  of  the  book.  Most  of  them  were  signed 
simply  "  Chris  "  or  "  Christopher."  But  one 
gave  his  name  in  full,  and  it  was  a  name  I  know 
well  as  that  of  a  famous  man,  whose  hand  I  have 
often  shaken.  I  thought  of  his  hard-featured, 
handsome  wife,  and  of  his  great,  chill  place,  half 
house,  half  exhibition,  in  Kensington,  filled  con- 
stantly with  its  smart,  chattering  set,  among 
whom  he  seemed  always  to  be  the  uninvited 
guest;  of  his  weary  face  and  bitter  tongue,  and, 


PORl^RAIT  OF  A    LADY.  87 

thinking  thus,  there  rose  up  before  me  the 
sweet,  sad  face  of  the  woman  of  the  miniature, 
and,  meeting  her  eyes  as  she  smiled  at  me  from 
out  of  the  shadows,  I  looked  at  her  my  wonder. 

I  took  the  miniature  from  its  shelf.  There 
would  be  no  harm  now  in  learning  her  name. 
So  I  stood  with  it  in  my  hand  till  a  little  later 
my  landlady  entered  to  lay  the  cloth. 

"  I  tumbled  this  out  of  your  bookcase,"  I 
said,  "  in  reaching  down  some  books.  It  is 
someone  I  know — someone  I  have  met,  but  I 
cannot  think  where.  Do  you  know  who  it  is?  " 

The  woman  took  it  from  my  hand,  and  a  faint 
flush  crossed  her  withered  face. 

"  I  had  lost  it,"  she  answered.  "  I  never 
thought  of  looking  there.  It's  a  portrait  of 
myself,  painted  years  ago  by  a  friend." 

I  looked  from  her  to  the  miniature  as  she 
stood  among  the  shadows,  with  the  lamplight 
falling  on  her  face,  and  saw  her,  perhaps,  for  the 
first  time. 

"  How  stupid  of  me,"  I  answered.  "  Yes,  I 
see  the  likeness  now." 


AN    ITEM    OF    FASHIONABLE 
INTELLIGENCE. 

,  PEAKING  personally,  I  do  not  like 

the  Countess  of .     She  is  not  the 

type  of  woman  I  could  love.     I  hesi- 
tate  the   less   giving   expression   to 
this    sentiment    by    reason    of    the    conviction 

that    the    Countess    of    would    not    be 

unduly  depressed  even  though  the  fact  should 
reach  her  ears.  I  cannot  conceive  the  Countess 
of  's  being  troubled  by  the  opinion  con- 
cerning her  of  any  being,  human  or  divine,  other 

than  the  Countess  of . 

But,  to  be  honest,  I  must  admit  that  for  the 

Earl  of she  makes  an  ideal  wife.    She  rules 

him  as  she  rules  all  others,  relations  and  retain- 
ers, from  the  curate  to  the  dowager,  but  the 
rod,  though  firmly  held,  is  wielded  with  justice 
and  kindly  intent.  Nor  is  it  possible  to  im- 
agine the  Earl  of  's  living  as  contentedly 

as  he  does  with  any  partner  of  a  less  dominat- 


FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE.  89 

ing  turn  of  mind.  He  is  one  of  those  weak- 
headed,  strong-limbed,  good-natured,  childish 
men,  born  to  be  guided  in  all  matters,  from  the 
tying  of  a  neck-cloth  to  the  choice  of  a  political 
party,  by  their  women  folk.  Such  men  are  in 
clover  when  their  proprietor  happens  to  be  a 
good  and  sensible  woman,  but  are  to  be  pitied 
when  they  get  into  the  hands  of  the  selfish  or 
the  foolish.  As  very  young  men  they  too  often 
fall  victims  to  bad-tempered  chorus  girls  or  to 
middle-aged  matrons  of  the  class  from  which 
Pope  judged  all  womankind.  They  make  capi- 
tal husbands  when  well  managed;  treated  badly, 
they  say  little,  but  set  to  work,  after  the  manner 
of  a  dissatisfied  cat,  to  find  a  kinder  mistress, 

generally  succeeding.    The  Earl  of adored 

his  wife,  and  deemed  himself  the  most  fortunate 
of  husbands,  and  a  better  testimonial  than  such 
no  wife  should  hope  for.  Till  the  day  she 
snatched  him  away  from  all  other  competitors, 
and  claimed  him  for  her  own,  he  had  obeyed  his 
mother  with  a  dutifulness  bordering  on  folly. 
Were  the  countess  to  die  to-morrow,  he  would 
be  unable  to  tell  you  his  mind  on  any  single 
subject  until  his  eldest  daughter  and  his  still 


90  FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE. 

unmarried  sister,  ladies  both  of  strong  charac- 
ter, attracted  toward  one  another  by  a  mutual 
antagonism,  had  settled  between  themselves 
which  was  to  be  mistress  of  him  and  of  his 
house. 

However,  there  is  little  fear  (bar  accidents) 
but  that  my  friend  the  countess  will  continue 

to  direct  the  hereditary  vote  of  the  Earl  of 

toward  the  goal  of  common  sense  and  public 
good,  guide  his  social  policy  with  judgment  and 
kindness,  and  manage  his  estates  witn  prudence 
and  economy  for  many  years  to  come.  She  is 
a  hearty,  vigorous  lady,  of  generous  propor- 
tions, with  the  blood  of  sturdy  forbears  in  her 
veins,  and  one  who  takes  the  same  excellent 
good  care  of  herself  that  she  bestows  on  all 
others  dependent  upon  her  guidance. 

"  I  remember,"  said  the  doctor — we  were 
dining  with  the  doctor  in  homely  fashion,  and 
our  wives  had  adjourned  to  the  drawing  room 
to  discuss  servants  and  husbands  and  other  do- 
mestic matters  with  greater  freedom,  leaving 
us  to  the  claret  and  the  twilight.  "  I  remem- 
ber when  we  had  the  cholera  here — it  must  be 
twenty  years  ago  now — that  woman  gave  up 


FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE.  91 

the  London  season  to  stay  down  here  and  take 
the  whole  burden  of  the  trouble  upon  her  own 
shoulders.  I  do  not  feel  any  call  to  praise  her; 
she  liked  the  work,  and  she  was  in  her  element, 
but  it  was  good  work  for  all  that.  She  had  no 
fear.  She  would  carry  the  children  in  her  arms 
if  time  pressed  and  the  little  ambulance  was  not 
at  hand.  I  have  known  her  sit  all  night  in  a 
room  not  twelve  feet  square,  between  a  dying 
man  and  his  wife.  But  the  thing  never  touched 
her.  Six  years  ago  we  had  the  smallpox,  and 
she  went  all  through  that  in  just  the  same  way. 
I  don't  believe  she  has  ever  had  a  day's  illness 
in  her  life.  She  will  be  physicking  this  parish 
when  my  bones  are  rattling  in  my  coffin,  and 
she  will  be  laying  down  the  laws  of  literature 
long  after  your  statue  has  become  a  familiar 
ornament  of  Westminster  Abbey.  She's  a  won- 
derful woman,  but  a  trifle  masterful." 

He  laughed,  but  I  detected  a  touch  of  irrita- 
tion in  his  voice.  My  host  looked  a  man  wish- 
ful to  be  masterful  himself.  I  do  not  think  he 
quite  relished  the  calm  way  in  which  the  grand 
dame  took  possession  of  all  things  around  her 
— himself  and  his  work  included. 


92  FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  the  story  of  the  mar- 
riage? "  he  asked. 

"No,"  I  replied;  "whose  marriage?  The 
earl's?  " 

"  I  should  call  it  the  countess'/'  he  answered. 
"  It  was  the  gossip  of  the  county  when  I  first 
came  here;  but  other  curious  things  have  hap- 
pened among  us  to  push  it  gradually  out  of 
memory.  Most  people,  I  really  believe,  have 

quite  forgotten  that  the  Countess  of once 

served  behind  a  baker's  counter." 

"  You  don't  say  so!  "  I  exclaimed.  The  re- 
mark, I  admit,  sounds  weak  when  written  down; 
the  most  natural  remarks  always  do. 

"  It's  a  fact,"  said  the  doctor,  "  though  she 
does  not  suggest  the  shop-girl,  does  she?  But 
then  I  have  known  countesses,  descended  in  a 
direct  line  from  William  the  Conqueror,  who 
did,  so  things  balance  one  another.  Mary, 

Countess  of ,  was,  thirty  years  ago,  Mary 

Sewell,  daughter  of  a  Taunton  linen  draper. 
The  business,  profitable  enough  as  country  busi- 
nesses go,  was  inadequate  for  the  needs  of  the 
Sewell  family,  consisting,  as  I  believe  it  did,  of 
seven  boys  and  eight  girls.  Mary,  the  young- 


FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE.  93 

est,  as  soon  as  her  brief  schooling  was  over,  had 
to  shift  for  herself.  She  seems  to  have  tried  her 
hand  at  one  or  two  things,  finally  taking  service 
with  a  cousin,  a  baker  and  confectioner,  who 
was  doing  well  in  Oxford  Street.  She  must 
have  been  a  remarkably  attractive  girl;  she's  a 
handsome  woman  now.  I  can  picture  that  soft 
creamy  skin  when  it  was  fresh  and  smooth,  and 
the  West  of  England  girls  run  naturally  to  dim- 
ples, and  eyes  that  glisten  as  though  they  had 
been  just  washed  in  morning  dew.  The  shop 
did  a  good  trade  in  ladies'  lunches — it  was  the 
glass  of  sherry  and  sweet  biscuit  period.  I  ex- 
pect they  dressed  her  in  some  neat-fitting  gray 
or  black  dress,  with  short  sleeves,  showing  her 
plump  arms,  such  as  girls  wear  who  move  among 
pastry,  and  that  she  flitted  around  the  marble- 
topped  tables,  smiling,  and  looking  cool  and 

sweet.     There  the  present  Earl  of  ,  then 

young  Lord  C ,  fresh  from  Oxford,  and  new 

to  the  dangers  of  London  bachelordom,  first 
saw  her.  He  had  accompanied  some  female 
relativea  to  the  photographers,  and,  hotels  and 
restaurants  being  deemed  impossible  in  those 
days  for  ladies,  had  taken  them  to  Sewell's  to 


94  FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE. 

lunch.  Mary  Sewell  waited  upon  the  party; 
and  now,  as  many  of  that  party  as  are  above 
ground  wait  upon  Mary  Sewell. 

"  He  showed  good  sense  in  marrying  her," 
I  said;  "  I  admire  him  for  it."  The  doctor's 
sixty-four  Lafitte  was  excellent.  I  felt  chari- 
tably inclined  toward  all  men  and  women,  even 
toward  earls  and  countesses. 

"  I  don't  think  he  had  much  to  do  with  it," 
laughed  the  doctor,  "  beyond  being,  like  Barkis, 
'  willing.'  It's  a  queer  story;  some  people  pro- 
fess not  to  believe  it,  but  those  who  know  her 
ladyship  best  think  it  just  the  story  that  must 
be  true,  because  it  is  so  characteristic  of  her. 
And  besides,  I  happen  to  know  that  it  is  true." 

"  I  should  like  to  hear  it,"  I  said. 

"  I  am  going  to  tell  it  you,"  said  the  doctor, 
lighting  a  fresh  cigar,  and  pushing  the  box  to- 
ward me. 

I  will  leave  you  to  imagine  the  lad's  suddenly 
developed  appetite  for  decantered  sherry  at  six  - 
pence  a  glass,  and  the  familiar  currant  bun  of 
our  youth.  He  lunched  at  Sewell's  shop,  he 
tea'd  at  Sewell's,  occasionally  he*dined  at  Sew- 


FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE.  95 

ell's,  off  cutlets,  followed  by  assorted  pastry. 
Possibly  merely  from  fear  lest  the  affair  should 
reach  his  mother's  ears,  for  he  was  neither 
worldly-wise  nor  vicious,  he  made  love  to  Mary 
under  an  assumed  name;  and,  to  do  the  girl  jus- 
tice, it  must  be  remembered  that  she  fell  in  love 
with  and  agreed  to  marry  plain  Mr.  John  Rob- 
inson, son  of  a  colonial  merchant,  a  gentleman, 
as  she  must  have  seen,  and  a  young  man  of  easy 
means,  but  of  a  position  not  so  very  much  su- 
perior to  her  own.  The  first  intimation  she 
received  that  her  lover  was  none  other  than 
Lord  C ,  the  future  Earl  of ,  was  vouch- 
safed her  during  a  painful  interview  with  his 
lordship's  mother. 

"  I  never  knew  it,  madam,"  asserted  Mary, 
standing  by  the  window  of  the  drawing  room 
above  the  shop,  "  upon  my  word  of  honor,  I 
never  knew  it." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  answered  her  ladyship  coldly. 
"  Would  you  have  refused  him  if  you  had?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell,"  was  the  girl's  answer;  "  it 
would  have  been  different  from  the  begin- 
ning. He  courted  me  and  asked  me  to  be  his 
wife." 


96  FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE. 

"  We  won't  go  into  all  that,"  interrupted  the 
other;  "  I  am  not  here  to  defend  him.  I  do  not 
say  he  acted  well.  The  question  is,  how  much 
will  compensate  you  for  your  natural  disap- 
pointment? " 

Her  ladyship  prided  herself  upon  her  blunt- 
ness  and  practicability.  As  she  spoke  she  took 
her  check-book  out  of  her  reticule,  and,  opening 
it,  dipped  her  pen  into  the  ink.  I  am  inclined 
to  think  that  the  flutter  of  that  check-book  was 
her  ladyship's  mistake.  The  girl  had  common 
sense,  and  must  have  seen  the  difficulties  in  the 
way  of  a  marriage  between  the  heir  to  an  earl- 
dom and  a  linen-draper's  daughter;  and  had  the 
old  lady  been  a  person  of  discernment,  the  in- 
terview might  have  ended  more  to  her  satisfac- 
tion. She  made  the  error  of  judging  the  world 
by  one  standard,  forgetting  there  are  indi- 
vidualities. Mary  Sewell  came  from  a  West  of 
England  stock  that,  in  the  days  of  Drake  and 
Frobisher,  had  given  more  than  one  able-bodied 
pirate  to  the  service  of  the  country,  and  that  in- 
sult of  the  check-book  put  the  fight  into  her. 
Her  lips  closed  with  a  little  snap,  and  the  fear 
fell  from  her. 


FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE.  97 

"  I  am  sorry  I  don't  see  my  way  to  obliging 
your  ladyship,"  she  said. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  girl?  "  asked  the  elder 
woman. 

"  I  don't  mean  to  be  disappointed,"  answered 
the  girl;  but  she  spoke  quietly  and  respectfully. 
"  We  have  pledged  our  word  to  one  another. 
If  he  is  a  gentleman,  as  I  know  he  is,  he  will 
keep  his,  and  I  shall  keep  mine." 

Then  her  ladyship  began  to  talk  reason,  as 
people  do  when  it  is  too  late.  She  pointed  out 
to  the  girl  the  difference  of  social  position,  and 
explained  to  her  the  miseries  that  come  from 
marrying  out  of  one's  station.  But  the  girl  by 
this  time  had  got  over  her  surprise,  and  per- 
haps had  begun  to  reflect  that,  in  any  case,  a 
countess-ship  was  worth  fighting  for.  The  best 
of  women  are  influenced  by  such  considerations. 

"  I  am  not  a  lady,  I  know,"  she  replied 
quietly,  "  but  my  people  have  always  been  hon- 
est folk,  well  known,  and  I  shall  try  to  learn. 
I'm  not  wishing  to  speak  disrespectfully  of  my 
betters,  but  I  was  in  service  before  I  came  here, 
ma'am,  as  a  lady's  maid,  in  a  place  where  I  saw 
much  of  what  is  called  society.  I  think  I  can 


9&  FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE. 

be  as  good  a  lady  as  some  I  know,  if  not 
better." 

The  countess  began  to  grow  angry  again. 
"  And  who  do  you  think  will  receive  you,"  she 
cried;  "  a  girl  who  has  served  in  a  pastry-cook 
shop?" 

"  Lady  L came  from  behind  the  bar," 

Mary  answered,  "  and  that's  not  so  much  better. 

And  the  Duchess  of  C ,  I  have  heard,  was  a 

ballet  girl,  but  nobody  seems  to  remember  it. 
I  don't  think  the  people  whose  opinion  is  worth 
having  will  object  to  me  for  very  long."  The 
girl  was  beginning  to  rather  enjoy  the  contest. 

"  You  profess  to  love  my  son,"  cried  the 
countess  fiercely,  "  and  you  are  going  to  ruin  his 
life.  You  will  drag  him  down  to  your  own  level." 

The  girl  must  have  looked  rather  fine  at  that 
moment;  I  should  dearly  love  to  have  been 
present. 

"  There  will  be  no  dragging  down,  my  lady," 
she  replied,  "  on  either  side.  I  do  love  your  son 
very  dearly.  He  is  one  of  the  kindest  and  best 
of  gentlemen.  But  I  am  not  blind,  and  what- 
ever amount  of  cleverness  there  may  be  between 
us,  belongs  chiefly  to  me.  I  shall  make  it  my 


I  AM   SORRY  I  DON'T  SEE  MY  WAY  TO   OBLIGING  YOUR  LADYSHT? 


FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE.  99 

duty  to  fit  myself  for  the  position  of  his  wife, 
and  to  help  him  in  his  work.  You  need  not 
fear,  my  lady;  I  shall  be  a  good  wife  to  him,  and 
he  shall  never  regret  it.  You  might  find  him  a 
richer  wife,  a  better  educated  wife,  but  you  will 
never  find  him  a  wife  who  will  be  more  devoted 
to  him  and  to  his  interests." 

That  practically  brought  the  scene  to  a  close. 
The  countess  had  sense  enough  to  see  that  she 
was  only  losing  ground  by  argument.  She  rose 
and  replaced  her  check-book  in  her  bag. 

"  I  think,  my  good  girl,  you  must  be  mad," 
she  said;  "if  you  will  not  allow  me  to  do  any- 
thing for  you,  there's  an  end  to  the  matter.  I 
did  not  come  here  to  quarrel  with  you.  My  son 
knows  his  duty  to  me  and  to  his  family.  You 
must  take  your  own  course  and  I  must  take 
mine." 

"  Very  well,  my  lady,"  said  Mary  Sewell, 
holding  the  door  open  for  her  ladyship  to  pass 
out;  "  we  shall  see  who  wins." 

But  however  brave  a  front  Mary  Sewell  may 
have  maintained  before  the  enemy,  I  expect  she 
felt  pretty  limp  when  thinking  matters  calmly 
over  after  her  ladyship's  departure.  She  knew 


100  FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE. 

her  lover  well  enough  to  guess  that  he  would  be 
as  wax  in  the  firm  hands  of  his  mother;  while 
she  herself  would  not  have  a  chance  of  opposing 
her  influence  against  those  seeking  to  draw  him 
away  from  her.  Once  again  she  read  through 
the  few  schoolboy  letters  he  had  written  her, 
and  then  looked  up  at  the  framed  photograph 
that  hung  above  the  mantelpiece  of  her  little 
bedroom.  The  face  was  that  of  a  frank,  pleas- 
ant-looking young  fellow,  lightened  by  eyes 
somewhat  large  for  a  man,  but  spoiled  by  a  pain- 
fully weak  mouth.  The  more  Mary  Sewell 
thought,  the  more  sure  she  felt  in  her  own  mind 
that  he  loved  her,  and  had  meant  honestly  by 
her.  Did  the  matter  rest  with  him,  she  might 

reckon  on  being  the  future  Countess  of  ; 

but,  unfortunately  for  her,  the  person  to  be  con- 
sidered was  not  Lord  C ,  but  the  present 

Countess  of  .     From  childhood,   through 

boyhood  into  manhood,  it  had  never  once  oc- 
curred to  Lord  C to  dispute  a  single  com- 
mand of  his  mother's,  and  his  was  not  the  type 
of  brain  to  readily  receive  new  ideas.  If  she 
was  to  win  in  the  unequal  contest  it  would  have 
to  be  by  art,  not  by  strength.  She  sat  down 


FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE.  IOI 

and  wrote  a  letter  which,  under  all  the  circum- 
stances, was  a  model  of  diplomacy.  She  knew 
that  it  would  be  read  by  the  countess,  and,  writ- 
ing it,  she  kept  both  mother  and  son  in  mind. 
She  made  no  reproaches,  and  indulged  in  but 
little  sentiment.  It  was  the  letter  of  a  woman 
who  could  claim  rights,  but  who  only  asked 
for  courtesy.  It  stated  her  wish  to  see  him 
alone  and  obtain  from  his  own  lips  the  assur- 
ance that  he  wished  their  engagement  to  cease. 
"  Do  not  fear,"  Mary  Sewell  wrote,  "  that  I 
shall  be  any  annoyance  to  you.  My  own  pride 
would  not  let  me  urge  you  to*  marry  me  against 
your  desire,  and  I  care  for  you  too  much  to 
cause  you  any  pain.  Assure  me  with  your  own 
lips  that  you  wish  our  engagement  to  be  at  an 
end,  and  I  shall  release  you  without  another 
word." 

The  family  were  in  town,  and  Mary  sent  her 
letter  by  a  trusty  hand.  The  countess  read  it 
with  huge  satisfaction,  and,  resealing  it,  gave  it 
herself  into  her  son's  hands.  It  promised  a 
happy  solution  of  the  problem.  In  imagina- 
tion she  had  all  the  night  been  listening  to  a 
vulgar  breach  of  promise  case.  She  herself  had 


102  FASHIONABLE   INTELLIGENCE. 

been  submitted  to  a  most  annoying  cross-ex- 
amination by  a  pert  barrister.  Her  son's 
assumption  of  the  name  of  Robinson  had  been 
misunderstood  and  severely  commented  upon 
by  the  judge.  A  sympathetic  jury  had  awarded 
thumping  damages;  and  for  the  next  six 
months  the  family  title  would  be  a  peg  on 
which  music-hall  singers  and  comic  journalists 

would  hang  their  ribald  jokes.  Lord  C 

read  the  letter,  flushed,  and  dutifully  handed  it 
back  to  his  mother.  She  made  pretense  to 
read  it  as  for  the  first  time,  and  counseled  him 
to  accord  the  interview. 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  she  said,  "  that  the  girl  is 
taking  the  matter  sensibly.  We  must  really  do 
something  for  her  in  the  future,  when  every- 
thing is  settled.  Let  her  ask  for  me,  and  then 
the  servants  will  fancy  she's  a  lady's  maid  or 
something  of  that  sort  come  after  a  place,  and 
won't  talk." 

So  that  evening  Mary  Sewell,  addressed 
by  the  butler  as  "  young  woman,"  was  ushered 
into  the  small  drawing  room  that  connects  the 
library  of  No.  —  Grosvenor  Square  with  the 
other  reception  rooms.  The  countess,  now  all 
amiability,  rose  to  greet  her. 


FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE.  103 

"  My  son  will  be  here  in  a  moment,"  she  ex- 
plained; "  he  has  informed  me  of  the 'purport  of 
your  letter.  Believe  me,  my  dear  Miss  Seweil, 
no  one  can  regret  his  thoughtless  conduct  more 
than  1  do.  But  young  men  will  be  young  men, 
and  they  do  not  stop  to  reflect  that  what  may 
be  a  joke  to  them  may  be  taken  quite  seriously 
by  others." 

l<  I  don't  regard  the  matter  as  a  joke,  my 
lady,"  replied  Mary  somewhat  curtly. 

"  Of  course  not,  my  dear,"  added  the  count- 
ess, "  that's  what  I'm  saying.  It  was  very 
wrong  of  him  altogether.  But  with  your 
pretty  face,  you  will  not,  I  am  sure,  have  long  to 
wait  for  a  husband;  we  must  see  what  we  can  do 
for  you." 

The  countess  certainly  lacked  tact;  it  must 
have  handicapped  her  exceedingly. 

"  Thank  you,"  answered  the  girl,  "  but  I  pre- 
fer to  choose  my  own." 

Fortunately — or  the  interview  might  have 
ended  in  another  quarrel — the  cause  of  all  the 
trouble  at  this  moment  entered  the  room,  and 
the  countess,  whispering  a  few  final  words  of  in- 
struction to  him  as  she  passed  out,  left  them 
together. 


104  FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE. 

Mary  took  a  chair  in  the  center  of  the  room, 
at  equal  distance  from  both  doors.  Lord 
C ,  finding  any  sort  of  a  seat  uncomfort- 
able under  the  circumstances,  preferred  to 
stand  with  his  back  to  the  mantelpiece.  Dead 
silence  was  maintained  for  a  few  seconds,  and 
then  Mary,  drawing  the  daintiest  of  handker- 
chiefs from  her  pocket,  began  to  cry.  The 
countess  must  have  been  a  poor  diplomatist, 
or  she  might  have  thought  of  this;  or  she 
may  have  remembered  her  own  appearance 
on  the  rare  occasions  when  she  herself,  a 
big,  raw-boned  girl,  had  attempted  the  soft- 
ening influence  of  tears,  and  have  attached 
little  importance  to  the  possibility.  But  when 
these  soft,  dimpled  women  cry,  and  cry  quietly, 
it  is  another  matter.  Their  eyes  grow  brighter, 
and  the  tears,  few  and  far  between,  lie  like  dew- 
drops  on  a  rose  leaf. 

Lord  C was  as  tender-hearted  a  lout  as 

ever  lived.  In  a  moment  he  was  on  his  knees 
with  his  arm  round  the  girl's  waist,  pouring  out 
such  halting  words  of  love  and  devotion  as  came 
to  his  unready  brain,  cursing  his  fate,  his  earl- 
dom, and  his  mother,  and  assuring  Mary  that 


FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE.  105 

his  only  chance  of  happiness  lay  in  his  making 
her  his  countess. 

Had  Mary  liked  to  say  the  word  at  that  mo- 
ment, he  would  have  caught  her  to  his  arms, 
and  defied  the  whole  world — for  the  time  being. 
But  Mary  was  a  very  practical  young  woman, 
and  there  are  difficulties  in  the  way  of  handling 
a  lover,  who,  however  ready  he  may  be  to  do 
your  bidding  so  long  as  your  eyes  are  upon  him, 
is  liable  to  be  turned  from  his  purpose  so  soon 
as  another  influence  is  substituted  for  your  own. 
His  lordship  suggested  an  immediate  secret 
marriage;  but  you  cannot  run  out  into  the 
street,  knock  up  a  clergyman,  and  get  mar- 
ried on  the  spot,  and  Mary  knew  that  the  mo- 
ment she  was  gone  his  lordship's  will  would 
revert  to  his  mother's  keeping.  Then  his  lord- 
ship suggested  flight,  but  flight  required  money, 
and  the  countess  knew  enough  to  keep  his  lord- 
ship's purse  in  her  own  hands.  Despair  seized 
upon  his  lordship. 

"It's  no  good,"  he  cried,  "  it  will  end  in  my 
marrying  her!  " 

"  Who's  she? "  exclaimed  Mary,  somewhat 
quickly. 


106  FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE. 

His  lordship  explained  the  position.  The 
family  estates  were  heavily  encumbered.  It 
was  deemed  advisable  that  his  lordship  should 
marry  money,  and  money,  in  the  person  of  the 
only  daughter  of  rich  and  ambitious  parvenus, 
had  offered  itself — or,  to  speak  more  correctly, 
had  been  offered. 

"  What's  she  like?  "  asked  Mary. 

"  Oh,  she's  nice  enough,"  was  the  reply, 
"  only  I  don't  care  for  her  and  she  doesn't  care 
for  me.  It  won't  be  much  fun  for  either  of  us," 
and  his  lordship  laughed  dismally. 

"  How  do  you  know  she  doesn't  care  for 
you?  "  asked  Mary.  A  woman  may  be  critical 
of  her  lover's  shortcomings,  but  at  the  very 
least,  he  is  good  enough  for  every  other  woman. 

"  Well,  she  happens  to  care  for  somebody 
else,"  answered  his  lordship;  "she  told  me  so 
herself." 

That  would  account  for  it.  "  And  is  she  will- 
ing to  marry  you?  "  inquired  Mary. 

His  lordship  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Oh, 
well,  you  know,  her  people  want  it,"  he  replied. 

In  spite  of  her  trouble  the  girl  could  not  help 
a  laugh.  These  young  swells  seemed  to  have 


FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE.  107 

but  small  wills  of  their  own.  Her  ladyship,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  door,  grew  nervous.  It 
was  the  only  sound  she  had  been  able  to  hear. 

"  It's  deuced  awkward,"  explained  his  lord- 
ship, "  when  you're — well,  when  you  are  any- 
body, you  know.  You  can't  do  as  you  like. 
Things  are  expected  of  you,  and  there's  such  a 
lot  to  be  considered." 

Mary  rose  and  clasped  her  pretty  dimpled 
hands,  from  which  she  had  drawn  her  gloves, 
behind  his  neck. 

"  You  do  love  me,  Jack?  "  she  said,  looking 
up  into  his  face. 

For  answer,  the  lad  hugged  her  to  him  very 
tightly,  and  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  Look  here,  Mary,"  he  cried;  "  if  I  could  only 
get  rid  of  my  position,  and  settle  down  with 
you  as  a  country  gentleman,  I'd  do  it  to-mor- 
row. D the  title,  it's  going  to  be  the  curse 

of  my  life!" 

Perhaps,  in  that  moment,  Mary  also  wished 
that  the  title  were  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  and 
that  her  lover  were  only  the  plain  Mr.  John 
Robinson  she  had  thought  him.  These  big, 
stupid  men  are  often  very  lovable  in  spite  of,  or 


Io8  FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE. 

because  of,  their  weakness.  They  appeal  to  the 
mother  side  of  a  woman's  heart,  and  that  is  the 
biggest  side,  in  all  good  women. 

Suddenly,  however,  the  door  opened.  The 
countess  appeared,  and  sentiment  flew  ou'i. 
Lord  C ,  releasing  Mary,  sprang  back,  look- 
ing like  a  guilty  schoolboy. 

"  I  thought  I  heard  Miss  Sewell  go  out,"  said 
her  ladyship  in  the  icy  tones  that  had  never  lost 
their  power  of  making  her  son's  heart  freeze 
within  him.  "  I  want  to  see  you  when  you  are 
free." 

"  I  shan't  be  long,"  stammered  his  lordship. 
"  Mary — Miss  Sewell  is  just  going." 
•  Mary  waited  without  moving  until  the  count- 
ess had  left  and  closed  the  door  behind  her. 
Then  she  turned  to  her  lover,  and  spoke  in 
quick,  low  tones. 

"  Give  me  her  address — the  girl  they  want 
you  to  marry!  " 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,"  asked  his 
lordship. 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  the  girl,  "  but  I'm 
going  to  see  her." 


FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE.  109 

She  scribbled  the  name  down,  and  then  said, 
looking  the  boy  squarely  in  the  face: 

'  Tell  me  frankly,  Jack,  do  you  want  to  marry 
me,  or  do  you  not?  " 

"  You  know  I  do,  Mary,"  he  answered,  and 
his  eyes  spoke  stronger  than  his  words.  "  If  I 
weren't  a  silly  ass,  there  would  be  none  of  this 
trouble.  But  I  don't  know  how  it  is — I  say  to 
myself  I'll  do  a  thing,  but  the  mater  talks  and 
talks  and " 

"  I  know,"  interrupted  Mary,  with  a  smile. 
"  Don't  argue  with  her,  fall  in  with  all  her  VJCWF, 
and  pretend  to  agree  with  her." 

"  If  you  could  only  think  of  some  plan " 

said  his  lordship,  catching  at  the  hope  of  her 
words;  "  you  are  so  clever." 

"  I  am  going  to  try,"  answered  Mary,  "  and 
if  I  fail,  you  must  run  off  with  me,  even  if  you 
have  to  do  it  right  before  your  mother's  eyes." 

What  she  meant  was,  "  I  shall  have  to  run 
off  with  you,"  but  she  thought  it  better  to  put 
it  the  other  way  about. 

Mary  found  her  involuntary  rival  a  meek, 
gentle  little  lady,  as  much  under  the  influence 


HO  FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE. 

of  her  blustering  father  as  was  Lord  C un- 
der that  of  his  mother.  What  took  place  at 
the  interview  one  can  only  surmise;  but  certain 
it  is  that  the  two  girls,  each  for  her  own  ends, 
undertook  to  aid  and  abet  one  another. 

Much  to  the  surprised  delight  of  their  re- 
spective parents,  there  came  about  a  change  in 
the  attitude  hitherto  assumed  toward  one 
another  by  Miss  Clementina  Hodskiss  and 

Lord  C .     All  objections  to  his  lordship's 

unwilling  attentions  were  suddenly  withdrawn 
by  the  lady.  Indeed,  so  swift  to  come  and  go 
are  the  whims  of  woman,  his  calls  were  actually 
encouraged,  especially  \vhen,  as  generally  hap- 
pened, they  coincided  with  the  absence  from 
home  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hodskiss.  Quite  as  re- 
markable was  the  newborn  desire  of  Lord 

C toward     Miss     Clementina     Hodskiss. 

Mary's  name  was  never  mentioned,  and  the  sug- 
gestion of  immediate  marriage  was  listened  to 
without  remonstrance.  Wiser  folk  would  have 
puzzled  their  brains,  but  both  her  ladyship  and 
ex-contractor  Hodskiss  were  accustomed  to 
find  all  things  yield  to  their  wishes.  The  count- 
ess saw  visions  of  a  rehabilitated  estate,  and 


SHE  SCRIBBLED  THE  NAME  DOWN 


FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE.  m 

Clementina's  father  dreamed  of  a  peerage, 
secured  by  the  influence  of  aristocratic  connec- 
tions. All  that  the  young  folks  stipulated  for 
(and  on  that  point  their  firmness  was  super- 
natural) was  that  the  marriage  should  be  quiet, 
almost  to  the  verge  of  secrecy. 

"  No  beastly  fuss,"  his  lordship  demanded; 
"  let  it  be  somewhere  in  the  country,  and  no 
mob!  "  and  his  mother,  thinking  she  understood 
his  reason,  patted  his  cheek  affectionately. 

"  I  should  like  to  go  down  to  Aunt  Jane's  and 
be  married  quietly  from  there,"  explained  Miss 
Hodskiss  to  her  father. 

Aunt  Jane  resided  on  the  outskirts  of  a  small 
Hampshire  village,  and  "  sat  under  "  a  clergy- 
man famous  throughout  the  neighborhood  for 
having  lost  the  roof  to  his  mouth. 

"  You  can't  be  married  by  that  old  fool," 
thundered  her  father.  Mr.  Hodskiss  always 
thundered;  he  thundered  even  his  prayers. 

"  He  christened  me,"  urged  Miss  Clementina. 

"  And  Lord  knows  what  he  called  you. 
Nobody  can  understand  a  word  he  says." 

"  I'd  like  him  to  marry  me,"  reiterated  Miss 
Clementina. 


112  FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE. 

Neither  her  ladyship  nor  the  contractor  liked 
the  idea.  The  latter  in  particular  had  looked 
forward  to  a  big  function,  chronicled  at  length 
in  all  the  newspapers.  But  after  all,  the  mar- 
riage was  the  essential  thing,  and  perhaps,  hav- 
ing regard  to  some  foolish  love  passages  that 
had  happened  between  Clementina  and  a  cer- 
tain penniless  naval  lieutenant,  ostentation 
might  be  out  of  place. 

So  in  due  course  Clementina  departed  for 
Aunt  Jane's,  accompanied  only  by  her  maid. 

Quite  a  treasure  was  Miss  Hodskiss'  new 
maid.  "  A  clean,  wholesome  girl,"  said  of  her 
Contractor  Hodskiss,  who  cultivated  affability 
toward  the  lower  orders;  "knows  her  place, 
and  talks  sense.  You  keep  that  girl,  Clemmy." 

"Do  you  think  she  knows  enough?"  haz- 
arded the  maternal  Hodskiss. 

"  Quite  sufficient  for  any  decent  woman,"  re- 
torted the  contractor.  "  When  Clemmy  wants 
painting  and  stuffing  it  will  be  time  enough  for 
her  to  think  about  getting  one  of  your  '  Ach 
Himmels  '  or  '  Man  Dieus.'  ' 

"  I  like  the  girl  myself  immensely,"  agreed 
Clementina's  mother;  "  you  can  trust  her,  and 
she  doesn't  give  herself  airs." 


FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE.  113 

Her  praises  reached  even  the  countess,  suffer- 
ing severely  at  the  moment  from  the  tyranny  of 
an  elderly  Fraulein. 

"  I  must  see  this  treasure,"  thought  the 
countess  to  herself.  "  I  am  tired  of  these  for- 
eign minxes." 

But  no  matter  at  what  cunning  hour  her 
ladyship  might  call,  the  "  treasure  "  always  hap- 
pened for  some  reason  or  other  to  be  abroad. 

"  Your  girl  is  always  out  when  I  come," 
laughed  the  countess.  "  One  would  fancy  there 
was  some  reason  for  it." 

"  It  does  seem  odd,"  agreed  Clementina,  with 
a  slight  flush. 

Miss  Hodskiss  herself  showed  rather  than 
spoke  her  appreciation  of  the  girl.  She  seemed 
unable  to  move  or  think  without  her.  Not 

even  from  the  interviews  with  Lord  C was 

the  maid  always  absent. 

The  marriage  it  was  settled  should  be  by 
license.  Mrs.  Hodskiss  made  up  her  mind  at 
first  to  run  down  and  see  to  the  preliminaries, 
but  really  when  the  time  arrived  it  hardly 
seemed  necessary  to  take  that  trouble.  The 
ordering  of  the  whole  affair  was  so  very  simple, 
and  the  "  treasure  "  appeared  to  understand  the 


H4  FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE. 

business  most  thoroughly,  and  to  be  willing  to 
take  the  whole  burden  upon  her  own  shoulders. 
It  was-  not,  therefore,  until  the  evening  before 
the  wedding  that  the  Hodskiss  family  arrived 
in  force,  filling  Aunt  Jane's  small  dwelling  to  its 
utmost  capacity.  The  swelling  figure  of  the 
contractor,  standing  beside  the  tiny  porch,  com- 
pelled the  passer-by  to  think  of  the  doll's  house 
in  which  the  dwarf  resides  during  fair-time, 
ringing  his  own  bell  out  of  his  own  first-floor 

window.  The  countess  and  Lord  C were 

staying  with  her  ladyship's  sister,  the  Hon. 
Mrs.  J ,  at  G Hall,  some  ten  miles  dis- 
tant, and  were  to  drive  over  in  the  morning. 
The  then  Earl  of was  in  Norway,  salmon- 
fishing.  Domestic  events  did  not  interest  him. 

Clementina  complained  of  a  headache  after 
dinner,  and  went  to  bed  early.  The  "  treasure  " 
also  was  indisposed.  She  seemed  worried  and 
excited. 

"  That  girl  is  as  eager  about  the  thing,"  re- 
marked Mrs.  Hodskiss,  "  as  though  it  was  her 
own  marriage." 

In  the  morning  Clementina  was  still  suffer- 
ing from  her  headache,  but  asserted  her  ability 


FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE.  H5 

to  go  through  the  ceremony,  provided  every- 
body would  keep  away,  and  not  worry  her. 
The  "  treasure  "  was  the  only  person  she  felt  she 
could  bear  to  have  about  her.  Half  an  hour  be- 
fore it  was  time  to  start  for  church  her  mother 
looked  her  up  again.  She  had  grown  still  paler, 
if  possible,  during  the  interval,  and  also  more 
nervous  and  irritable.  She  threatened  to  go 
to  bed  and  stop  there  if  she  was  not  left  quite 
alone;  she  almost  turned  her  mother  out  of  the 
room,  locking  the  door  behind  her.  Mrs. 
Hodskiss  had  never  known  her  daughter  to  be 
like  this  before. 

The  others  went  on,  leaving  her  to  follow  in 
the  last  carriage  with  her  father.  The  con- 
tractor, forwarned,  spoke  little  to  her.  Only 
once  he  had  occasion  to  ask  her  a  question,  and 
then  she  answered  in  a  strained,  unnatural  voice. 
She  appeared,  so  far  as  could  be  seen  under  her 
heavy  veil,  to  be  crying. 

"  Well,  this  is  going  to  be  a  cheerful  wed- 
ding," said  Mr.  Hodskiss,  and  lapsed  into  sulki- 
ness. 

The  wedding  was  not  so  quiet  as  had  been 
anticipated.  The  village  had  got  scent  of  it 


Il6  FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE. 

and  had  spread  itself  upon  the  event,  while  half 

the  house  party  from  G Hall  had  insisted 

on  driving  over  to  take  part  in  the  proceedings. 
The  little  church  was  better  filled  than  it  had 
been  for  many  a  long  year  past. 

The  presence  of  the  stylish  crowd  unnerved 
the  ancient  clergyman,  long  unaccustomed  to 
the  sight  of  a  strange  face;  and  the  first  sound 
of  the  ancient  clergyman's  voice  unnerved  the 
stylish  crowd.  What  little  articulation  he  pos- 
sessed entirely  disappeared;  no  one  could  under- 
stand a  word  he  said.  He  appeared  to  be 
uttering  sounds  of  distress.  The  ancient  gen- 
tleman's infliction  had  to  be  explained  in  low 
asides,  and  it  also  had  to  be  explained  why  such 
a  one  had  been  chosen  to  perform  the  ceremony. 

"  It  was  a  whim  of  Clementina's,"  whispered 
her  mother.  "  Her  father  and  myself  were 
married  from  here,  and  he  christened  her.  The 
dear  child's  full  of  sentiment.  I  think  it  so 
nice  of  her." 

Everybody  agreed  it  was  charming,  but 
wished  it  were  over.  The  general  effect  was 
weird  in  the  extreme. 

Lord   C spoke  up  fairly  well,   but   the 


FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE.  117 

bride's  responses  were  singularly  indistinct,  the 
usual  order  of  things  being  thus  reversed.  The 
story  of  a  naval  lieutenant  was  remembered,  and 
added  to;  and  some  of  the  more  sentimental  of 
the  women  began  to  cry  in  sympathy. 

In  the  vestry  things  assumed  a  brighter  tone. 
There  was  no  lack  of  witnesses  to  sign  the 
register.  The  verger  pointed  out  to  them  the 
place,  and  they  wrote  their  names,  as  people  in 
such  cases  do,  without  stopping  to  read.  Then 
it  occurred  to  someone  that  the  bride  had  not 
yet  signed.  She  stood  apart,  with  her  veil  still 
down,  and  appeared  to  have  been  forgotten. 
Encouraged,  she  came  forward  meekly,  and 
took  the  pen  from  the  hand  of  the  verger.  The 
countess  came  and  stood  behind  her. 

"  Mary,"  wrote  the  bride,  in  a  hand  that 
looked  as  though  it  ought  to  have  been  firm, 
but  which  was  not. 

"  Dear  me,"  said  the  countess,  "  I  never  knew 
there  was  a  Mary  in  your  name.  How  differ- 
ently you  write  when  you  write  slowly." 

The  bride  did  not  answer,  but  followed  with 
"  Susannah." 

"  Why,  what  a  lot  of  names  you  must  have, 


n8  FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE. 

my  dear! "  exclaimed  the  countess.  "  When 
are  you  going  to  get  to  the  ones  we  all  know?  " 

"  Ruth,"  continued  the  bride  without  answer- 
ing. 

Breeding  is  not  always  proof  against  strong 
emotion.  The  countess  snatched  the  bride's 
veil  from  her  face,  and  Mary  Susannah  Ruth 
Sewell  stood  before  her,  flushed  and  trembling, 
but  looking  none  the  less  pretty  because  of  that. 
At  this  point  the  crowd  came  in  useful. 

"  I  am  sure  your  ladyship  does  not  wish  a 
scene,"  said  Mary,  speaking  low.  "  The  thing 
is  done." 

"  The  thing  can  be  undone,  and  will  be,"  re- 
torted the  countess,  in  the  same  tone.  "  You, 
you " 

"  My  wife,  don't  forget  that,  mother,"  said 
Lord  C ,  coming  between  them,  and  slip- 
ping Mary's  hand  on  to  his  arm.  "  We  are 
both  sorry  to  have  had  to  go  about  the  thing  in 
this  roundabout  way;  but  we  wanted  to  avoid  a 
fuss.  I  think  we  had  better  be  getting  away. 
I'm  afraid  Mr.  Hodskiss  is  going  to  be  noisy." 

The  doctor  poured  himself  out   a  glass   of 


FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE.  1 19 

claret,  and  drank  it  off.  His  throat  must  have 
been  dry. 

"  And  what  became  of  Clementina? "  I 
asked.  "  Did  the  naval  lieutenant,  while  the 
others  were  at  church,  dash  up  in  a  post-chaise 
and  carry  her  off?  " 

"  That's  what  ought  to  have  happened,  for 
the  whole  thing  to  be  in  keeping,"  agreed  the 
doctor.  "  I  believe,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  she  did 
marry  him  eventually,  but  not  till  some  years 
later,  after  the  contractor  had  died." 

"  And  did  Mr.  Hodskiss  make  a  noise  in  the 
vestry?"  I  persisted.  The  doctor  never  will 
finish  a  story. 

"  I  can't  say  for  certain,"  answered  my  host; 
"  I  only  saw  the  gentleman  once.  That  was  at 
a  shareholder's  meeting.  I  should  incline  to  the 
opinion  that  he  did." 

"  I  suppose  the  bride  and  bridegroom  slipped 
out  as  quietly  as  possible  and  drove  straight 
off,"  I  suggested. 

"  That  would  have  been  the  sensible  thing 
for  them  to  do,"  agreed  the  doctor. 

"  But  how  did  she  manage  about  her  travel- 
ing frock?  "  I  continued.  "  She  could  hardly 


120  FASHIONABLE  INTELLIGENCE. 

have  gone  back  to  her  Aunt  Jane's  and  changed 
her  things."  The  doctor  has  no  mind  for 
minutiae. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  about  all  that,"  he 
replied.  "  I  think  I  mentioned  that  Mary  was 
a  practical  girl.  Possibly  she  had  thought  of 
these  details." 

"  And  did  the  countess  take  the  matter 
quietly?  "  I  asked.  I  like  a  tidy  story,  where 
everybody  is  put  into  his  or  her  proper  place  at 
the  end.  Your  modern  romancer  leaves  half  his 
characters  lying  about  just  anyhow. 

"  That  also  I  cannot  tell  you  for  certain," 
answered  the  doctor;  "  but  I  give  her  credit  for 

so  much  sense.  Lord  C was  of  age,  and 

with  Mary  at  his  elbow  quite  knew  his  own 
mind.  I  believe  they  traveled  for  two  or  three 
years.  The  first  time  I  myself  set  eyes  on  the 
countess  (nee  Mary  Sewell)  was  just  after  the 
late  Earl's  death.  I  thought  she  looked  a 
countess,  every  inch  of  her,  but  then  I  had  not 
heard  the  story.  I  mistook  the  dowager  for  the 
housekeeper." 


DICK   DUNKERMAN'S   CAT. 

IICHARD  DUNKERMAN  and  I 
had  been  old  schoolfellows — if  a  gen- 
tleman belonging  to  the  Upper 
Sixth,  arriving  each  morning  in  a 
"  topper  "  and  a  pair  of  gloves,  and  "  a  discredit 
to  the  Lower  Fourth,"  in  a  Scotch  cap,  can  by 
any  manner  of  means  be  classed  together;  and 
though  in  those  early  days  a  certain  amount  of 
coldness  existed  between  us,  originating  in  a 
poem  composed,  and  sung  on  occasions,  by  my- 
self in  commemoration  of  an  alleged  painful  inci- 
dent connected  with  a  certain  breaking-up  day, 
and  which,  if  I  remember  rightly,  ran: 

Dicky,  Dicky  Dunk, 
Always  in  a  funk, 
Drank  a  glass  of  sherry  wine, 
And  went  home  roaring  drunk, 

and  kept  alive  by  his  brutal  criticism  of  the 
same,  expressed  with  the  bony  part  of  the  knee, 
yet  in  after  life  we  came  to  know  and  like  each 


122  DICK  DUNKERMAN'S  CAT. 

other  better.  I  drifted  into  journalism,  while 
he  for  years  had  been  an  unsuccessful  barrister 
and  dramatist;  but  one  spring,  to  the  astonish- 
ment of  us  all,  he  brought  out  the  play  of  the 
season,  a  somewhat  impossible  little  comedy, 
but  full  of  homely  sentiment  and  belief  in  human 
nature.  It  was  about  a  couple  of  months  after 
its  production  that  he  first  introduced  me  to 
"  Pyramids,  Esquire." 

I  was  in  love  at  the  time.  Her  name  was,  I 
think,  Naomi,  and  I  wanted  to  talk  to  somebody 
about  her.  Dick  had  a  reputation  for  taking  an 
intelligent  interest  in  other  men's  love  affairs. 
He  would  let  a  lover  rave  by  the  hour  to  him, 
taking  brief  notes  the  while  in  a  bulky  red- 
covered  volume  labeled  "  Commonplace  Book." 
Of  course  everybody  knew  that  he  was  using 
them  merely  as  raw  material  for  his  dramas,  but 
we  did  not  mind  that  so  long  as  he  would  only 
listen.  I  put  on  my  hat  and  went  round  to  his 
chambers. 

We  talked  about  indifferent  matters  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  or  so,  and  then  I  launched 
forth  upon  my  theme.  I  had  exhausted  her 
beauty  and  goodness,  and  was  well  into  my  own 


DICK  DUNKERMAN'S  CAT.  123 

feelings — the  madness  of  my  ever  imagining  I 
had  loved  before,  the  utter  impossibility  of  my 
ever  caring  for  any  other  woman,  and  my  desire 
to  die  breathing  her  name — before  he  made  a 
move.  I  thought  he  had  risen  to  reach  down, 
as  usual,  the  "  Commonplace  Book,"  and  so 
waited;  but,  instead,  he  went  to  the  door  and 
opened  it,  and  in  glided  one  of  the  largest  and 
most  beautiful  black  tom-cats  I  have  ever  seen. 
It  sprang  on  Dick's  knee  with  a  soft  "  cur-roo," 
and  sat  there,  upright,  watching  me;  and  I 
went  on  with  my  tale. 

After  a  few  minutes  Dick  interrupted  me 
with : 

"  I  thought  you  said  her  name  was  Naomi?  " 

"  So  it  is,"  I  replied.     "  Why?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  he  answered;  "  only  just  now 
you  referred  to  her  as  Enid." 

This  was  remarkable,  as  I  had  not  seen  Enid 
for  years,  and  had  quite  forgotten  her.  Some- 
how it  took  the  glitter  out  of  the  conversation. 
A  dozen  sentences  later  Dick  stopped  me  again 
with: 

"  Who's  Julia?  " 

I  began  to  get  irritated.     Julia,   I   remem- 


J24  DICK  DUXKERMAN'S  CAT, 

bered,  had  been  cashier  in  a  city  restaurant,  and 
had,  when  I  was  little  more  than  a  boy,  almost 
inveigled  me  into  an  engagement.  I  found  my- 
self getting  hot  with  the  recollection  of  the 
spooney  rhapsodies  I  had  hoarsely  poured  into 
her  powder-streaked  ear  while  holding  her 
flabby  hand  across  the  counter. 

"  Did  I  really  say  '  Julia  '?"  I  answered,  some- 
what sharply,  "  or  are  you  joking?  " 

"  You  certainly  alluded  to  her  as  Julia,"  he  re- 
plied mildly.  "  But  never  mind;  you  go  on  as 
you  like;  I  shall  know  who  you  mean." 

But  the  flame  was  dead  within  me.  I  tried  to 
rekindle  it,  but  every  time  I  glanced  up  and  met 
the  green  eyes  of  the  black  Tom  it  flickered  out 
again.  I  recalled  the  thrill  that  had  penetrated 
my  whole  being  when  Naomi's  hand  had  acci- 
dentally touched  mine  in  the  conservatory,  and 
wondered  whether  she  had  done  it  on  purpose. 
I  thought  how  good  and  sweet  she  was  to  that 
irritatingly  silly  old  frump,  her  mother,  and  won- 
dered if  it  really  were  her  mother,  or  only  hired. 
I  pictured  her  crown  of  gold-brown  hair  as  I  had 
last  seen  it  with  the  sunlight  kissing  its  wanton 
waves,  and  felt  I  would  like  to  be  quite  sure  that 
it  were  all  her  own. 


DICK  DUNKERMAN'S  CAT.  125 

Once  I  clutched  the  flying  skirts  of  my  enthu- 
siasm with  sufficient  firmness  to  remark  that  in 
my  own  private  opinion  a  good  woman  was 
more  precious  than  rubies;  adding  immediately 
afterward,  the  words  escaping  me  unconsciously 
before  I  was  aware  even  of  the  thought,  "  pity 
it's  so  difficult  to  tell  'em." 

Then  I  gave  it  up,  and  sat  trying  to  remember 
what  I  had  said  to  her  the  evening  before,  and 
hoping  I  had  not  committed  myself. 

Dick's  voice  roused  me  from  my  unpleasant 
reverie. 

•'  No,"  he  said,  "  I  thought  you  would  not  be 
able  to.  None  of  them  can." 

"  None  of  them  can  what?  "  I  asked.  Some- 
how I  was  feeling  angry  with  Dick,  and  with 
Dick's  cat,  and  with  myself  and  most  other 
things. 

"  Why,  talk  love  or  any  other  kind  of  senti- 
ment before  old  Pyramids  here?  "  he  replied, 
stroking  the  cat's  soft  head  as  it  rose  and 
arched  its  back. 

"  What's  the  confounded  cat  got  to  do  with 
it?  "  I  snapped. 

"  That's  just  what  I  can't  tell  you,"  he  an- 


126  DICK  DUNKERMAN'S  CAT. 

swered;  "  but  it's  very  remarkable.  Old  Leman 
dropped  in  here  the  other  evening,  and  began  in 
his  usual  style  about  Ibsen  and  the  destiny  of 
the  human  race  and  the  Socialistic  ideal  and  all 
the  rest  of  it — you  know  his  way.  Pyramids 
sat  on  the  edge  of  the  table  there  and  looked  at 
him,  just  as  he  sat  looking  at  you  a  few  minutes 
ago,  and  in  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Leman 
had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  society  would 
do  better  without  ideals  and  that  the  destiny  of 
the  human  race  was  in  all  probability  the  dust 
heap.  He  pushed  his  long  hair  back  from  his 
eyes  and  looked,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
quite  sane.  '  We  talk  about  ourselves,'  he  said, 
'  as  though  we  were  the  end  of  creation.  I  get 
tired  listening  to  myself  sometimes.  Pah!'  he 
continued,  '  for  all  we  know  the  human  race  may 
die  out  utterly  and  another  insect  take  our 
place;  as  possibly  we  pushed  out  and  took  the 
place  of  a  former  race  of  beings.  I  wonder  if 
the  ant  tribe  may  not  be  the  future  inheritors  of 
the  earth.  They  understand  combination,  and 
already  have  an  extra  sense  that  we  lack.  If  in 
the  courses  of  evolution  they  grow  bigger  in 
brain  and  body,  they  might  become  powerful 


DICK  DUNKERMAN'S   CAT.  127 

rivals.     Who    knows? '     Curious    to    hear   old 
Leman  talking  like  that,  wasn't  it?  " 

"  What  made  you  call  him  '  Pyramids '?  "  I 
asked  of  Dick. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answered.  "  I  suppose 
because  he  looked  so  old.  The  name  came  to 
me." 

I  leaned  across,  and  looked  into  the  great 
green  eyes;  and  the  creature,  never  winking, 
never  blinking,  looked  back  into  mine,  until  the 
feeling  came  to  me  that  I  was  being  drawn  down 
into  the  very  wells  of  Time.  It  seemed  as 
though  the  panorama  of  the  ages  must  have 
passed  in  review  before  those  expressionless 
orbs — all  the  loves  and  hopes  and  desires  of 
mankind;  all  the  everlasting  truths  that  had 
been  found  false;  all  the  eternal  faiths  dis- 
covered to  save,  until  it  was  discovered  they 
damned.  The  strange  black  creature  grew  and 
grew  till  it  seemed  to  fill  the  room,  and  Dick 
and  I  to  be  but  shadows  floating  in  the  air. 

I  forced  from  myself  a  laugh,  that  only  in 
part,  however,  broke  the  spell;  and  inquired  of 
Dick  how  he  had  acquired  possession  of  it. 
"  It  came  to  me,"  he  answered,  "  one  right, 


128  DICK  DUNKERMAN'S  CAT. 

six  months  ago.  I  was  down  on  my  luck  at 
the  time.  Two  of  my  plays,  on  which  I  had 
built  great  hopes,  had  failed,  one  on  top  of  the 
other — you  remember  them — and  it  appeared 
absurd  to  think  that  any  manager  would  ever 
look  at  anything  of  mine  again.  Old  Walcott 
had  just  told  me  that  he  did  not  consider  it  right 
of  me  under  all  the  circumstances  to  hold  Liz- 
zie any  longer  to  her  engagement,  and  that  I 
ought  to  go  away  and  give  her  a  chance  of  for- 
getting me,  and  I  had  agreed  with  him.  I  was 
alone  in  the  world,  and  heavily  in  debt.  Alto- 
gether, things  seemed  about  as  hopeless  as  they 
could  be;  and  I  don't  mind  confessing  to  you 
now  that  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  blow  out 
my  brains  that  very  evening.  I  had  loaded  my 
revolver,  and  it  lay  before  me  on  the  desk.  My 
hand  was  toying  with  it  when  I  heard  a  faint 
scratching  at  the  door.  I  paid  no  attention  at 
first,  but  it  grew  more  persistent,  and  at  length, 
to  stop  the  faint  noise,  which  excited  me  more 
than  I  could  account  for,  I  rose  and  opened  the 
door,  and  it  walked  in. 

"  He  perched  himself  upon  the  corner  of  my 
desk  beside  the  loaded  pistol,  and  sat  there  bolt 


DICK  DUNKERMAN'S  CAT.  129 

upright  looking  at  me;  and  I.  pushing  back  my 
chair,  sat  looking  at  him;  and  there  came  a  let- 
ter telling  me  that  a  man  of  whose  name  I  had 
heard  had  been  killed  by  a  cow  in  Melbourne, 
and  that  under  his  will  a  legacy  of  three  thou- 
sand pounds  fell  into  the  estate  of  a  distant  rela- 
tive of  my  own,  who  had  died  peacefully  and 
utterly  insolvent  eighteen  months  previously, 
leaving  me  his  soul  heir  and  representative ;  and 
I  put  the  revolver  back  into  the  drawer." 

"  Do  you  think  Pyramids  would  come  and 
stop  with  me  for  a  week?  "  I  asked,  reaching 
over  to  stroke  the  cat  as  it  lay  softly  purring  on 
Dick's  knee. 

"  Maybe  he  will,  some  day,"  replied  Dick,  in  a 
low  voice;  but  before  the  answer  came — I 
know  not  why — I  had  regretted  the  jesting 
words. 

"  I  came  to  talk  to  him  as  though  he  were  a 
human  creature,"  continued  Dick,  "  and  to  dis- 
cuss things  with  him.  My  last  play  I  regarded 
as  a  collaboration;  indeed  it  is  far  more  his  than 
mine." 

I  should  have  thought  Dick  mad  had  not  the 
cat  been  sitting  there  before  me  with  its  eyes 


13°  DICK  DUNKERMAN'S  CAT. 

looking  into  mine.  As  it  was  I  only  grew  more 
interested  in  his  tale. 

"  It  was  rather  a  cynical  play  as  I  first  wrote 
it/'  he  went  on,  "  a  truthful  picture  of  a  certain 
corner  of  society  as  I  saw  and  knew  it.  From 
an  artistic  point  of  view  I  felt  it  was  good;  from 
the  box-office  standard  it  was  doubtful.  I  drew 
it  from  my  desk  on  the  third  evening  after 
Pyramid's  advent,  and  read  it  through.  He  sat 
on  the  arm  of  the  chair  and  looked  over  the 
pages  as  I  turned  them. 

"  It  was  the  best  thing  I  had  ever  written. 
Insight  into  life  ran  through  every  line.  I 
found  myself  reading  it  again  with  delight. 
Suddenly  a  voice  beside  me  said: 

"'Very  clever,  my  boy;  very  clever,  indeed. 
If  you  would  just  turn  it  topsey-turvy,  change  all 
those  bitter,  truthful  speeches  into  noble  senti- 
ments; make  your  Under-Secretary  for  Foreign 
Affairs  (who  never  has  been  a  popular  charac- 
ter) die  in  the  last  act  instead  of  the  Yorkshire- 
man,  and  let  your  bad  woman  be  reformed  by 
her  love  for  the  hero  and  go  off  somewhere  by 
herself  and  be  good  to  the  poor  in  a  black  frock, 
the  piece  might  be  worth  putting  on  the  stage/ 


DICK  DUNKERMAN'S  CAT.  131 

"  I  turned  indignantly  to  see  who  was  speak- 
ing. The  opinions  sounded  like  those  of  a  the- 
atrical manager.  No  one  was  in  the  room  but  1 
and  the  cat.  No  doubt  I  had  been  talking  to 
myself;  but  the  voice  was  strange  to  me. 

"  '  Be  reformed  by  her  love  for  the  hero! '  I 
retorted  contemptuously,  for  I  was  unable  to 
grasp  the  idea  that  I  was  arguing  only  with  my- 
self, '  why  it's  his  mad  passion  for  her  that  ruins 
his  life.' 

"  'And  will  ruin  the  play  with  the  great  B.  P.,' 
returned  the  other  voice.  '  The  British  dram- 
atic hero  has  no  passion,  but  a  pure  and  respect- 
ful admiration  for  an  honest,  hearty  English 
girl — pronounced  "  gey-url."  You  don't  know 
the  canons  of  your  art.' 

'  And  besides,'  I  persisted,  unheeding  the 
interruption,  '  women  born  and  bred  and  soaked 
for  thirty  years  in  an  atmosphere  of  sin  don't 
reform.' 

"  '  Well,  this  one's  got  to,  that's  all/  was  the 
sneering  reply,  '  let  her  hear  an  organ.' 

"  '  But  as  an  artist '  I  protested. 

"  '  You  will  be  always  unsuccessful/  was  the 
rejoinder;  '  my  dear  fellow,  you  and  your  plays, 


132  DICK  DUNKERMAN'S   CAT. 

artistic  or  inartistic,  will  be  forgotten  in  a  very 
few  years  hence.  You  give  the  world  what  it 
wants  and  the  world  will  give  you  what  you 
want.  Please,  if  you  wish  to  live.' 

"  So,  with  Pyramids  beside  me  day  by  day,  I 
re-wrote  the  play;  and  whenever  I  felt  a  thing 
to  be  utterly  impossible  and  false  I  put  it  down 
with  a  grin.  And  every  character  I  made  to 
talk  clap-trap  sentiment  while  Pyramids  purred ; 
and  I  took  care  that  every  one  of  my  puppets 
did  that  which  was  right  in  the  eyes  of  the  lady 
with  the  lorgnettes  in  the  second  row  of  the 
dress  circle;  and  old  Hewson  says  the  play  will 
run  five  hundred  nights. 

"  But  what  is  worst,"  concluded  Dick,  "  is 
that  I  am  not  ashamed  of  myself,  and  that  I 
seem  content." 

"  What  do  you  think  the  animal  is?  "  I  asked 
with  a  laugh;  "an  evil  spirit?"  For  it  had 
passed  into  the  next  room  and  so  out  through 
the  open  window,  and  its  strangely  still  green 
eyes  no  longer  drawing  mine  toward  them,  I  felt 
my  common  sense  returning  to  me. 

"  You  have  not  lived  with  it  for  six  months." 
answered  Dick  quietly,  "  and  felt  its  eyes  for- 


DICK  DUNKERMAN'S  CAT.  133 

ever  on  you,  as  I  have.  And  I  am  not  the  only 
one.  You  know  Canon  Whycherly,  the  great 
preacher?  " 

"  My  knowledge  of  modern  church  history  is 
not  extensive,"  I  replied.  "  I  know  him  by 
name,  of  course.  What  about  him?  " 

"  He  was  curate  in  the  East  End,"  continued 
Dick,  "  and  for  ten  years  he  labored,  poor  and 
unknown,  leading  one  of  those  noble,  heroic 
lives  that  here  and  there  men  do  yet  live,  even  in 
this  age.  Now  he  is  the  prophet  of  the  fashion- 
able up-to-date  Christianity  of  South  Kensing- 
ton, drives  to  his  pulpit  behind  a  pair  of  thor- 
ough-bred Arabs,  and  his  waistcoat  is  taking  to 
itself  the  curved  line  of  prosperity.  He  was  in 
here  the  other  morning  on  behalf  of  Prin- 
cess   .  They  are  giving  a  performance  of 

one  of  my  plays  in  aid  of  the  Destitute  Vicars' 
Fund." 

"And  did  Pyramids  discourage  him?"  I 
asked,  with  perhaps  the  suggestion  of  a  sneer. 

"No,"  answered  Dick;  "so  far  as  I  could 
judge  it  approved  the  scheme.  The  point  of 
the  matter  is  that  the  moment  Whycherly  came 
into  the  room  the  cat  walked  over  to  him  and 


134  DICK  DUNKERMAN'S  CAT. 

rubbed  itself  affectionately  against  his  legs.  He 
stooped  and  stroked  it. 

"  '  Oh,  so  it's  come  to  you,  has  it?  '  he  said, 
with  a  curious  smile. 

"  There  was  no  need  for  any  further  explana- 
tion between  us.  I  understood  what  lay  behind 
those  few  words." 

I  lost  sight  of  Dick  for  some  time,  though  I 
heard  a  good  deal  of  him,  for  he  was  rapidly 
climbing  into  the  position  of  the  most  success- 
ful dramatist  of  the  day,  and  Pyramids  I  had  for- 
gotten all  about,  until  one  afternoon,  calling 
on  an  artist  friend  who  had  lately  emerged  from 
the  shadows  of  starving  struggle  into  the  sun- 
shine of  popularity,  I  saw  a  pair  of  green  eyes 
that  seemed  familiar  gleaming  at  me  from 
a  dark  corner  of  the  studio. 

"  Why,  surely,"  I  exclaimed,  crossing  over  to 
examine  the  animal  more  closely;  "  why,  yes, 
you've  got  Dick  Dunkerman's  cat !  " 

He  raised  his  face  from  the  easel  and  glanced 
across  at  me. 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "we  can't  live  on  ideals;" 


DICK  DUNKERMAN'S  CAT.  135 

and  I,  remembering,  hastened  to  change  the 
conversation. 

Since  then  I  have  met  Pyramids  in  the  rooms 
of  many  friends  of  mine.  They  give  him  differ- 
ent names,  but  I  am  sure  it  is  the  same  cat;  I 
know  those  green  eyes.  He  always  brings  them 
luck,  but  they  are  never  quite  the  same  men 
again  afterward. 

Sometimes  I  sit  wondering  if  I  hear  his 
scratching  at  the  door. 


REGINALD  BLAKE,  FINANCIER 
AND  CAD. 

HE  advantage  of  literature  over  life 
is  that  its  characters  are  clearly  de- 
fined and  act  consistently.  Nature, 
always  inartistic,  takes  pleasure  in 
creating  the  impossible.  Reginald  Blake  was 
as  typical  a  specimen  of  the  well-bred  cad  as  one 
could  hope  to  find  between  Piccadilly  Circus  and 
Hyde  Park  Corner.  Vicious  without  passion, 
and  possessing  brain  without  mind,  existence 
presented  to  him  no  difficulties,  while  his  pleas- 
ures bro  ight  him  no  pains.  His  morality  was 
bounded  by  the  doctor  on  the  one  side  and  the 
magistrate  on  the  other.  Careful  never  to  out- 
rage the  decrees  of  either,  he  was  at  forty-five 
still  healthy,  though  stout;  and  had  achieved  the 
not  too  easy  task  of  amassing  a  fortune  while 
avoiding  all  risk  of  Holloway.  He  and  his  wife 
Edith  (nee  Eppington)  were  as  ill-matched  a 
couple  as  could  be  conceived  by  any  dram- 

136 


REGINALD  BLAKE,  FINANCIER  AND  CAD.       1 37 

atist  seeking  material  for  a  problem  play.  As 
they  stood  before  the  altar  on  their  wedding- 
morn,  they  might  have  been  taken  as  symboliz- 
ing satyr  and  saint.  More  than  twenty  years 
his  junior,  beautiful  with  the  beauty  of  a  Raph- 
ael's Madonna,  his  every  touch  of  her  seemed  a 
sacrilege.  Yet  once  in  his  life  Mr.  Blake  played 
the  part  of  a  great  gentleman;  Mrs.  Blake,  on 
the  same  occasion,  contenting  herself  with  a 
singularly  mean  role — mean  even  for  a  woman 
in  love. 

The  affair,  of  course,  had  been  a  marriage  of 
convenience.  Blake,  to  do  him  justice,  had 
made  no  pretense  to  anything  beyond  admira- 
tion and  regard.  Few  things  grow  monotonous 
sooner  than  irregularity.  He  would  tickle  his 
jaded  palate  with  respectability,  and  try  for  a 
change  the  companionship  of  a  good  woman. 
The  girl's  face  drew  him,  as  the  moonlight  holds 
a  man  who,  bored  by  the  noise,  turns  from  a 
heated  room  to  press  his  forehead  to  the  win- 
dow-pane. Accustomed  to  bid  for  what  he 
wanted,  he  offered  his  price.  The  Eppington 
family  was  poor  and  numerous.  The  girl,  bred 
up  to  the  false  notions  of  duty  inculcated  by  a 


I  38       REGINALD  BLAKE,  FINANCIER  AND  CAD. 

narrow  conventionality,  and,  feminine-like,  half 
in  love  with  martyrdom  for  its  own  sake,  let  her 
father  bargain  for  a  higher  price,  and  then  sold 
herself. 

To  a  drama  of  this  description  a  lover  is  nec- 
essary, if  the  complications  are  to  be  of  interest 
to  the  outside  world.  Harry  Sennett,  a  pleas- 
ant looking  enough  young  fellow,  in  spite  of  his 
receding  chin,  was  possessed,  perhaps,  of  more 
good  intention  than  sense.  Under  the  influence 
of  Edith's  stronger  character,  he  was  soon  per- 
suaded to  meekly  acquiesce  in  the  proposed 
arrangement.  Both  succeeded  in  convincing 
themselves  that  they  were  acting  nobly.  The 
tone  of  the  farewell  interview,  arranged  for  the 
eve  of  the  wedding,  would  have  been  fit  and 
proper  to  the  occasion  had  Edith  been  a  mod- 
ern Joan  of  Arc  about  to  sacrifice  her  own  hap- 
piness on  the  altar  of  a  great  cause;  as  the  girl 
was  merely  selling  herself  into  ease  and  luxury, 
for  no  higher  motive  than  the  desire  to  enable 
a  certain  number  of  more  or  less  worthy  rela- 
tives to  continue  living  beyond  their  legitimate 
means,  the  sentiment  was  perhaps  exaggerated. 
Many  tears  were  shed,  and  many  everlasting 


REGINALD  BLAKE,  FINANCIER  AND  CAD.       139 

good-bys  spoken,  though,  seeing  that  Edith's 
new  home  would  be  only  a  few  streets  off,  and 
that  of  necessity  their  social  set  would  continue 
to  be  the  same,  more  experienced  persons  might 
have  counseled  hope.  Three  months  after  the 
marriage  they  found  themselves  side  by  side  at 
the  same  dinner  table;  and  after  a  little  melo- 
dramatic fencing  with  what  they  were  pleased 
to  regard  as  fate,  they  accommodated  them- 
selves to  the  customary  positions. 

Blake  was  quite  aware  that  Sennett  had  been 
Edith's  lover.  So  had  half  a  dozen  other  men, 
some  younger,  some  older,  than  himself.  He 
felt  no  more  embarrassment  at  meeting  them 
than,  standing  on-  the  pavement  outside  the 
Stock  Exchange,  he  would  have  experienced 
greeting  his  brother  jobbers  after  a  settling  day 
that  had  transferred  a  fortune  from  their  hands 
into  his.  Sennett>  in  particular,  he  liked  and  en- 
couraged. Our  whole  social  system,  always  a 
mystery  to  the  philosopher,  owes  its  existence 
to  the  fact  that  few  men  and  women  possess  suf- 
ficient intelligence  to  be  interesting  in  them- 
selves. Blake  liked  company,  but  not  much 
company  liked  Blake.  Young  Sennett,  how- 


140       REGINALD  BLAKE,  FINANCIER  AND  CAD. 

ever,  could  always  be  relied  upon  to  break  the 
tediousness  of  the  domestic  duologue.  A  com- 
mon love  of  sport  drew  the  two  men  together. 
Most  of  us  improve  upon  closer  knowledge,  and 
so  they  came  to  find  good  in  one  another. 

"  That  is  the  man  you  ought  to  have  mar- 
ried," said  Blake  one  night  to  his  wife,  half 
laughingly,  half  seriously,  as  they  sat  alone, 
listening  to  Sennett's  departing  footsteps  echo- 
ing upon  the  deserted  pavement.  "  He's  a 
good  fellow — not  a  mere  money-grubbing  ma- 
chine like  me." 

And  a  week  later  Sennett,  sitting  alone  with 
Edith,  suddenly  broke  out  with: 

"  He's  a  better  man  than  I  am,  with  all  my 
highfalutin'  talk;  and,  upon  my  soul,  he  loves 
you.  Shall  I  go  abroad?  " 

"  If  you  like,"  was  the  answer. 

"  What  would  you  do?  " 

"  Kill  myself,"  replied  the  other,  with  a  laugh, 
''  or  run  away  with  the  first  man  that  asked 
me." 

So  Sennett  stayed  on. 

Blake  himself  had  made  the  path  easy  to 
them.  There  was  little  need  for  either  fear  or 


THERE  WAS  LITTLE  NEED   FOR  EITHER  FEAR  OR  CAUTION 


REGINALD  BLAKE,  FINANCIER  AND  CAD.        141 

c.atition.  Indeed,  their  safest  course  lay  in  reck- 
lessness, and  they  took  it.  To  Sennett  the 
house  was  always  open.  It  was  Blake  himself 
who,  when  unable  to  accompany  his  wife,  would 
suggest  Sennett  as  a  substitute.  Club  friends 
shrugged  their  shoulders.  Was  the  man  com- 
pletely under  his  wife's  thumb,  or  tired  of  her; 
was  he  playing  some  devil's  game  of  his  own? 
To  most  of  his  acquaintances  the  latter  explana- 
tion seemed  the  more  plausible. 

The  gossip,  in  due  course,  reached  the  pa- 
rental home.  Mrs.  Eppington  shook  the  vials 
of  her  wrath  over  the  head  of  her  son-in-law. 
The  father,  always  a  cautious  man,  felt  inclined 
to  blame  his  child  for  her  want  of  prudence. 

"  She'll  ruin  everything,"  he  said.  "  Why 
the  devil  can't  she  be  careful?  " 

"  I  believe  the  man  is  deliberately  plotting  to 
get  rid  of  her,"  said  Mrs.  Eppington.  "  I  shall 
tell  him  plainly  what  I  think." 

"  You're  a  fool,  Hannah,"  replied  her  hus- 
band, allowing  himself  the  license  of  the  domes- 
tic hearth.  "  If  you  are  right,  you  will  only  pre- 
cipitate matters;  if  you  are  wrong,  you  will  tell 
him  what  there  is  no  need  for  him  to  know. 


I42       REGINALD  BLAKE,  FINANCIER  AND  CAD. 

Leave  the  matter  to  me.  I  can  sound  him  with- 
out giving  anything  away,  and  meanwhile  you 
talk  to  Edith." 

So  matters  were  arranged,  but  the  interview 
between  mother  and  daughter  hardly  improved 
the  position.  Mrs.  Eppington  was  convention- 
ally moral;  Edith  had  been  thinking  for  her- 
self, and  thinking  in  a  bad  atmosphere.  Mrs. 
Eppington  grew  angry  at  the  girl's  callousness. 

"  Have  you  no  sense  of  shame?  "  she  cried. 

"  I  had  once,"  was  Edith's  reply,  "  before  I 
came  to  live  here.  Do  you  know  what  this 
house  is  for  me,  with  its  gilded  mirrors,  its 
couches,  its  soft  carpets?  Do  you  know  what  I 
am,  and  have  been  for  two  years?  " 

The  elder  woman  rose  with  a  frightened, 
pleading  look  upon  her  face,  and  the  other 
stopped  and  turned  away  toward  the  window 

"  We  all  thought  it  for  the  best,"  continued 
Mrs.  Eppington  meekly. 

The  girl  spoke  wearily,  without  looking 
round. 

"  Oh!  every  silly  thing  that  was  ever  done 
was  done  for  the  best.  /  thought  it  would  be 
for  the  best  myself.  Everything  would  be  so 


REGINALD  BLAKE,  FINANCIER  AND  CAD.      143 

simple  if  only  we  were  not  alive.  Don't  let's 
talk  any  more.  All  you  can  say  is  quite  right." 

The  silence  continued  for  a  while,  the  Dres- 
den china  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  ticking 
louder  and  louder,  as  if  to  say,  "  I,  Time,  am 
here.  Do  not  make  your  plans  forgetting  me, 
little  mortals;  I  change  your  thoughts  and 
wills.  You  are  but  my  puppets." 

"  Then  what  do  you  intend  to  do? "  de- 
manded Mrs.  Eppington  at  length. 

"  Intend!  Oh,  the  right  thing  of  course! 
We  all  intend  that.  I  shall  send  Harry  away, 
with  a  few  well-chosen  words  of  farewell,  learn 
to  love  my  husband,  and  settle  down  to  a  life 
of  quiet  domestic  bliss.  Oh,  it's  easy  enough 
to  intend!" 

The  girl's  face  wrinkled  with  a  laugh  that 
ageid  her.  In  that  moment  it  was  a  hard,  evil 
face,  and  with  a  pang  the  elder  woman  thought 
of  that  other  face,  so  like,  yet  so  unlike — the 
sweet,  pure  face  of  a  girl  that  had  given  to  a 
sordid  home  its  one  touch  of  nobility.  As  under 
the  lightning's  flash  we  see  the  whole  arc  of  the 
horizon,  so  Mrs.  Eppington  looked  and  saw  her 
child's  life.  The  gilded,  over-furnished  room 


144       REGINALD  BLAKE,  FINANCIER  AND  CAD. 

vanished.  She  and  a  big-eyed,  fair-haired  child, 
the  only  one  of  her  children  she  had  ever  under- 
stood, were  playing  wonderful  games  in  the  twi- 
light, among  the  shadows  of  a  tiny  attic.  Now 
she  was  the  wolf,  devouring  Edith,  who  was 
Red  Riding  Hood,  with  kisses.  Now  Cinder- 
ella's prince,  now  both  her  wicked  sisters.  But 
in  the  favorite  game  of  all  Mrs.  Eppington  was 
a  beautiful  princess,  bewitched  by  a  wicked 
dragon,  so  that  she  seemed  to  be  an  old,  worn 
woman.  But  curly  headed  Edith  fought  the 
dragon,  represented  by  the  three-legged  rock- 
ing-horse, and  slew  him  with  much  shouting 
and  the  toasting  fork.  Then  Mrs.  Eppington 
became  again  a  beautiful  princess,  and  went 
away  with  Edith  back  to  her  own  people. 

In  this  twilight  hour  the  misbehavior  of  the 
"  General,"  the  importunity  of  the  family 
butcher,  and  the  airs  assumed  by  Cousin  Jane, 
who  kept  two  servants,  were  forgotten. 

The  games  ended.  The  little  curly  head 
would  be  laid  against  her  breast  "  for  five  min- 
utes, love,"  while  the  restless  little  brain  framed 
the  endless  question  that  children  are  forever 
asking  in  all  its  thousand  forms,  "  What  is  life, 


REGINALD  BLAKE,  FINANCIER  AND  CAD.       145 

mother?  I  am  very  little,  and  I  think  and  think, 
until  I  grow  frightened.  Oh,  mother,  tell  me 
what  is  life." 

Had  she  dealt  with  these  questions  wisely? 
Might  it  not  have  been  better  to  have  treated 
them  more  seriously?  Could  life,  after  all,  be 
ruled  by  maxims  learned  from  copybooks?  She 
had  answered  as  she  had  been  answered  in  her 
own  far  back  days  of  questioning.  Might 
it  not  have  been  better  had  she  thought  for 
herself? 

Suddenly  Edith  was  kneeling  on  the  floor  be- 
side her. 

"  I  will  try  to  be  good,  mother." 

It  was  the  old  baby  cry,  the  cry  of  us  all,  chil- 
dren that  we  are,  till  Mother  Nature  kisses  us 
and  bids  us  go  to  sleep. 

Their  arms  were  round  each  other  now,  and 
so  they  sat,  mother  and  child  once  more.  And 
the  twilight  of  the  old  attic,  creeping  westward 
from  the  east,  found  them  again. 

The  masculine  duet  had  more  result,  but  was 
not  conducted  with  the  finesse  that  Mr.  Epping- 
ton,  who  prided  himself  on  his  diplomacy,  had 
intended.  Indeed,  so  evidently  ill  at  ease  was 


146      REGINALD  BLAKE,  FINANCIER  AND  CAD. 

that  gentleman,  when  the  moment  came  for 
talk,  and  so  palpably  were  his  pointless  remarks 
mere  efforts  to  delay  an  unpleasant  subject, 
that  Blake,  always  direct,  bluntly,  though  not 
ill-naturedly,  asked  him,  "  How  much?  " 

Mr.  Eppington  was  disconcerted. 

"  It's  not  that — at  least  that's  not  what  I 
have  come  about,"  he  answered  confusedly. 

"What  have  you  come  about?" 

Inwardly  Mr.  Eppington  cursed  himself  for 
a  fool,  for  the  which  he  was,  perhaps,  not  alto- 
gether without  excuse.  He  had  meant  to  act 
the  part  of  a  clever  counsel,  acquiring  informa- 
tion while  giving  none;  by  a  blunder  he  found 
himself  in  the  witness  box. 

"  Oh,  nothing,  nothing!  "  was  the  feeble  re- 
sponse; "  I  merely  looked  in  to  see  how  Edith 
was." 

"  Much  the  same  as  at  dinner  last  night,  when 
you  were  here,"  answered  Blake.  "  Come,  out 
with  it." 

It  seemed  the  best  course  now,  and  Mr.  Ep- 
pington took  the  plunge. 

"  Don't  you  think,"  he  said,  unconsciously 
glancing  about  the  room  to  be  sure  that  they 


SUDDENLY   EDITH   WAS   KNEELING   ON    THE   FLOOR   BESIDE   HER 


REGINALD  BLAKE,  FINANCIER  AND  CAD.       147' 

were  alone,  "  that  young  Sennett  is  a  little  too 
much  about  the  house?  " 

Blake  stared  at  him. 

"  Of  course  we  know  it  is  all  right — as  nice 
a  young  fellow  as  ever  lived — and  Edith — and 
all  that.  Of  course,  it's  absurd,  but " 

"But  what?" 

"  Well,  people  will  talk." 

"  What  do  they  say?  " 

The  other  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

Blake  rose.  He  had  an  ugly  look  when 
angry,  and  his  language  was  apt  to  be  coarse. 

"  Tell  them  to  mind  their  own  business,  and 
leave  me  and  my  wife  alone."  That  was  the 
sense  of  what  he  said;  he  expressed  himself  at 
greater  length,  and  in  stronger  language. 

"  But,  my  dear  Blake,"  urged  Mr.  Epping- 
ton,  "  for  your  own  sake,  is  it  wise?  There  was 
a  sort  of  boy  and  girl  attachment  between  them 
— nothing  of  any  moment,  but  all  that  gives 
color  to  gossip.  Forgive  me,  but  I  am  her 
father;  I  do  not  like  to  hear  my  child  talked 
about." 

"  Then  don't  open  your  ears  to  the  chatter  of 
a  pack  of  fools,"  replied  his  son-in-law  roughly. 


I48       REGINALD  BLAKE,  FINANCIER  AND  CAD. 

But  the  next  instant  a  softer  expression  passed 
over  his  face,  and  he  laid  his  hanid  on  the  older 
man's  arm. 

"  Perhaps  there  are  many  more,  but  there's 
one  good  woman  in  the  world,"  he  said,  "  and 
that's  your  daughter.  Come  and  tell  me  that 
the  Bank  of  England  is  getting  shaky  on  its 
legs,  and  I'll  listen  to  you." 

But  the  stronger  the  faith  the  deeper  strike 
the  roots  of  suspicion.  Blake  said  no  further 
word  om  the  subject,  and  Sennett  was  as  wel- 
come as  before.  But  Edith,  looking  up  sud- 
denly, would  sometimes  find  his  eyes  fixed  on 
her  with  a  troubled  look,  as  of  some  dumb  crea- 
ture trying  to  understand;  and  often  he  would 
slip  out  of  the  house  of  an  evening  by  himself, 
returning  home  hours  afterward,  tired  and  mud- 
stained. 

He  made  attempts  to  show  his  affection. 
This  was  the  most  fatal  thing  he  could  have 
done.  Ill-temper,  ill-treatment  even,  she  might 
have  borne.  His  clumsy  caresses,  his  foolish, 
halting  words  of  tenderness,  became  a  horror 
to  her.  She  wondered  whether  to  laugh  or  to 
strike  at  his  upturned  face.  His  tactless  devo- 


REGINALD  BLAKE,  FINANCIER  AND  CAD.       149 

tion  filled  her  life  as  with  some  sickly  perfume, 
stifling  her.  If  only  she  could  be  by  herself  for 
a  little  while  to  think!  But  he  was  with  her 
night  and  day.  There  were  times  when,  as  he 
would  cross  the  room  toward  her,  he  grew  mon- 
strous until  he  towered  above  her  a  formless 
thing  such  as  children  dream  of.  And  she 
would  sit  with  her  lips  tight  pressed,  clutching 
the  chair  lest  she  should  start  up  screaming. 

Her  only  thought  was  to  escape  from  him. 
One  day  she  hastily  packed  a  few  necessaries 
in  a  small  handbag,  and  crept  unperceived 
from  the  house.  She  drove  to  Charing  Cross, 
but  the  Continental  Express  did  not  leave  for 
an  hour,  and  she  had  time  to  think. 

Of  what  use  was  it?  Her  slender  stock  of 
money  would  soon  be  gone;  how  could  she 
live?  He  would  find  her  and  follow  her.  It 
was  all  so  hopeless! 

Suddenly  a  fierce  desire  of  life  seized  hold  of 
her,  the  angry  answer  of  her  young  blood  to 
despair.  Why  should  she  die,  never  having 
known  what  it  was  to  live?  Why  should  she 
prostrate  herself  before  this  Juggernaut  of 
other  people's  respectability?  Joy  called  to  her; 


15°       REGINALD  BLAKE,  FINANCIER  AND  CAD. 

only  her  own  cowardice  stayed  her  from  stretch- 
ing forth  her  hand  and  gathering  it.  She  re- 
turned home  a  different  woman,  for  hope  had 
come  to  her. 

A  week  later  the  butler  entered  the  dining 
room  and  handed  Blake  a  letter  addressed  to 
him  in  his  wife's  handwriting.  He  took  it  with- 
out a  word,  as  though  he  had  been  expecting 
it.  It  simply  told  him  that  she  had  left  him 
forever. 

The  world  is  small,  and  money  commands 
many  services.  Sennett  had  gone  out  for  a 
stroll;  Edith  was  left  in  the  tiny  salon  of  their 
appartement  at  Fecamp.  It  was  the  third  day 
of  their  arrival  in  the  town.  The  door  was 
opened  and  closed,  and  Blake  stood  before  her. 

She  rose  frightened,  but  by  a  motion  he  re- 
assured her.  There  was  a  quiet  dignity  about 
the  man  that  was  strange  to  her. 

"  Why  have  you  followed  me?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  want  you  to  return  home." 

"  Home!  "  she  cried.  "  You  must  be  mad. 
Do  you  not  know " 

He   interrupted   her   vehemently.     "  I  know 


REGINALD  BLAKE,  FINANCIER  AND  CAD.       151 

nothing.  I.  wish  to  know  nothing.  Go  back  to 
London  at  once.  I  have  made  everything 
right;  no  one  suspects.  I  shall  not  be  there; 
you  will  never  see  meiagain;  and  you  will  have 
an  opportunity  of  undoing  your  mistake — our 
mistake." 

She  listened.  Hers  was  not  a  great  nature, 
and  the  desire  to  obtain  happiness  without  pay- 
ing the  price  was  strong  upon  her.  As  for  his 
good  name,  what  could  that  matter,  he  argued. 
People  would  only  say  that  he  had  gone  back  to 
the  evil  from  which  he  had  emerged,  and  few 
would  be  surprised.  His  life  would  go  on 
much  as  it  had  done,  and.  she  would  only  be 
pitied. 

She  quite  understood  his  plan;  it  seemed 
mean  of  her  to  accept  his  proposal,  and  she 
argued  feebly  against  it.  But  he  overcame  all 
her  objections.  For  his  own  sake,  he  told  her, 
he  would  prefer  the  scandal  to  be  connected 
with  his  name  rather  than  with  that  of  his  wife. 
As  he  unfolded  his  plan,  she  began  to  feel  that 
in  acquiescing  she  was  conferring  a  favor.  It 
was  not  the  first  deception  he  had  arranged  for 
the  public,  and  he  appeared  to  be  half  in  love 


I52       REGINALD  BLAKE,  FINANCIER  AND  CAD. 

with  his  own  cleverness.  She  even  found  herself 
laughing  at  his  mimicry  of  what  this  acquaint- 
ance and  that  would  say.  Her  spirits  rose;  the 
play  that  might  have  been  a  painful  drama 
seemed  turning  out  an  amusing  farce. 

The  thing  settled,  he  rose  to  go,  and  held  out 
his  hand.  As  she  looked  up  into  his  face,  some- 
thing about  the  line  of  his  lips  smote  upon  her. 

"  You  will  be  well  rid  of  me,"  she  said.  "  I 
have  brought  you  nothing  but  trouble." 

"  Oh,  trouble!  "  he  answered;  "  if  that  were 
all!  A  man  can  bear  trouble." 

"What  else?"  she  asked. 

His  eyes  traveled  aimlessly  about  the  room. 
"  They  taught  me  a  lot  of  things  when  I  was  a 
boy,"  he  said,  "  my  mother  and  others — they 
meant  well — which,  as  I  grew  older,  I  discov- 
ered to  be  lies;  and  so  I  came  to  think  that 
nothing  good  was  true,  and  that  everything 
and  everybody  was  evil.  And  then " 

His  wandering  eyes  came  round  to  her,  and 
he  broke  off  abruptly.  "  Good-by,"  he  said, 
and  the  next  moment  he  was  gone. 

She  sat  wondering  for  a  while  what  he  had 


REGINALD  BLAKE,  FINANCIER  AND  CAD.       153 

meant.    Then  Sennett  returned,  and  the  words 
went  out  of  her  head. 

A  good  deal  of  sympathy  was  felt  for  Mrs. 
Blake.  The  man  had  a  charming  wife;  he 
might  have  kept  straight;  but,  as  his  friends 
added,  "  Blake  was  always  a  cad." 


THE  MINOR  POET'S  STORY. 

T  doesn't  suit  you  at  all,"  I  answered. 
"  You're   very   disagreeable,"   said 
she;  "  I  shan't  ever  ask  your  advice 
again." 

"  Nobody,"  I  hastened  to  add,  "  would  look 
well  in  it.  You,  of  course,  look  less  awful  in  it 
than  any  other  woman  would;  but  it's  not  your 
style." 

"  He  means,"  explained  the  Minor  Poet, 
"  that  the  thing  itself,  not  being  pre-eminently 
beautiful,  it  does  not  suit — is  not  in  agreement 
with  you.  The  contrast  between  you  and  any- 
thing approaching  the  ugly  or  the  commonplace 
is  too  glaring  to  be  aught  else  than  displeasing." 
"  He  didn't  say  it,"  replied  the  Woman  of  the 
World;  "  and  besides  it  isn't  ugly,  it's  the  very 
latest  fashion." 

"  Why  is  it,"  asked  the  Philosopher,  "  that 
women  are  such  slaves  to  fashion?     They  think 
clothes,  they  talk  clothes,  they  read  clothes;  yet 
154 


THE  MINOR  POET'S  STORY.  155 

they  have  never  understood  clothes.  The  pur- 
pose of  dress,  after  the  primary  object  of  warmth 
has  been  secured,  is  to  adorn,  to  beautify  the 
particular  wearer.  Yet  not  one  woman  in  a 


thousand  stops  to  consider  what  colors  will  go 
best  with  her  complexion,  what  cut  will  best 
hide  the  defects  or  display  the  advantages  of 
her  figure.  If  it  be  the  fashion,  she  must  wear 
it;  and  so  we  have  pale-faced  girls  looking 
ghastly  in  shades  suitable  to  dairymaids,  and 
dots  waddling  about  in  costumes  fit  and  proper 
to  six-footers.  It  is  as  if  crows  insisted  on  wear- 
ing cockatoos'  feathers  on  their  heads,  and  rab- 
bits ran  about  with  peacocks'  tails  fastened 
behind  them." 


156  THE  MINOR  POET'S  STORY. 

li  And  are  not  you  men  every  bit  as  foolish?  " 
retorted  the  Girton  Girl;  "  sack  coats  come  into 
fashion,  and  dumpy  little  men  trot  up  and  down 
in  them,  looking  like  butter  tubs  on  legs.  You 
go  about  in  July  melting  under  frock  coats  and 
chimney-pot  hats,  and,  because  it  is  the  stylish 
thing  to  do,  you  all  play  tennis  in  stiff  shirts  and 
stand-up  collars,  which  is  idiotic.  If  fashion  de- 
creed that  you  should  play  cricket  in  a  pair  of 
top-boots  and  a  diver's  helmet,  you  would  play 
cricket  in  a  pair  of  top-boots  and  a  diver's  hel- 
met, and  dub  every  sensible  fellow  who  didn't 
a  cad.  It's  worse  in  you  than  in  us;  men  are 
supposed  to  think  for  themselves,  and  to  be 
capable  of  it,  the  womanly  woman  isn't." 

"  Big  women  and  little  men  look  well  in  noth- 
ing," said  the  Woman  of  the  World.  "  Poor 
Emily  was  five  foot  ten  and  a  half,  and  never 
looked  an  inch  under  seven  foot  whatever  she 
wore.  Empires  came  into  fashion,  and  the  poor 
child  looked  like  the  giant's  baby  in  a  panto- 
mime. We  thought  the  Greek  might  help  her, 
but  it  only  suggested  a  Crystal  Palace  statue 
tied  up  in  a  sheet,  and  tied  up  badly;  and  when 
puff-sleeves  and  shoulder-capes  were  in  and 


THE  MINOR  POET'S  STORY. 


'57 


Teddy  stood  up  behind  her  at  a  water  party  and 
sang  '  Under  the  Spreading  Chestnut-tree/  she 
took  it  as  a  personal  insult  and  boxed  his  ears. 
Few  men  liked  to  be  seen  with  her;  and  I'm  sure 
George  proposed  to  her  partly  with  the  idea  of 


saving  himself  the  expense  of  a  step-ladder — she 
reaches  down  his  books  for  him  from  the  top 
shelf." 

"  I,"  said  the  Minor  Poet,  "  take  up  the  po- 
sition of  not  wanting  to  waste  my  brain  upon 
the  subject.  Tell  me  what  to  wear,  and  I  will 
wear  it,  and  there  is  an  end  of  the  matter.  If 


158  THE   MINOR  POET'S  STORY. 

Society  says,  '  Wear  blue  shirts  and  white  col- 
lars,' I  wear  blue  shirts  and  white  collars.  If 
she  says,  '  The  time  has  now  come  when  hats 
should  be  broad-brimmed/  I  take  unto  myself  a 
broad-brimmed  hat.  The  question  does  not 


interest  me  sufficiently  for  me  to  argue  it.  It 
is  your  fop  who  refuses  to  follow  fashion.  He 
wishes  to  attract  attention  to  himself  by  being 
peculiar.  A  novelist  whose  books  pass  un- 
noticed gains  distinction  by  designing  his  own 
necktie;  and  many  an  artist,  following  the  line 
of  least  resistance,  learns  to  let  his  hair  grow 
instead  of  learning  to  paint." 


THE  MINOR  POET'S   STORY.  159 

"  The  fact  is,"  remarked  the  Philosopher, 
"  we  are  the  mere  creatures  of  fashion.  Fashion 
dictates  to  us  our  religion,  our  morality,  our 
affections,  our  thoughts.  In  one  age  success- 
ful cattle-lifting  is  a  virtue;  a  few  hundred  years 
later  company-promoting  takes  its  place  as  a 
respectable  and  legitimate  business.  In  Eng- 
land and  America  Christianity  is  fashionable,  in 
Turkey,  Mohammedanism;  and  '  the  crimes  of 
Clapham  are  chaste  in  Martaban.'  In  Japan  a 
woman  dresses  down  to  the  knees,  but  would  be 
considered  immodest  if  she  displayed  bare  arms. 
In  Europe  it  is  legs  that  no  pure-minded 
woman  is  supposed  to  possess.  In  China  we 
worship  our  mother-in-law  and  despise  our  wife; 
in  England  we  treat  our  wife  with  respect,  and 
regard  our  mother-in-law  as  the  bulwark  of 
comic  journalism.  The  stone  age,  the  iron  age, 
the  age  of  faith,  the  age  of  infidelism,  the  phil- 
osophic age,  what  are  they  but  the  passing 
fashions  of  the  world?  It  is  fashion,  fashion, 
fashion  wherever  we  turn.  Fashion  waits  be- 
side our  cradle  to  lead  us  by  the  hand  through 
life.  Now  literature  is  sentimental,  now  hope- 
fully humorous,  now  psychological,  now  new- 


160  THE  MINOR  POET'S  STORY. 

womanly.  Yesterday's  pictures  are  the  laugh- 
ing stock  of  the  up-to-date  artist  of  to-day,  and 
to-day's  art  will  be  sneered  at  to-morrow.  Now 
it  is  fashionable  to  be  democratic,  to  pretend 
that  no  virtue  or  wisdom  can  exist  outside  cor- 
duroy, and  to  abuse  the  middle  classes.  One 
season  we  go  slumming,  and  the  next  we  are  all 
socialists.  We  think  we  are  thinking;  we  are 
simply  dressing  ourselves  up  in  words  we  do 
not  understand  for  the  gods  to  laugh  at  us." 

"  Don't  be  pessimistic,"  retorted  the  Minor 
Poet;  "  pessimism  is  going  out.  You  call  such 
changes  fashions;  I  call  them  the  footprints  of 
progress.  Each  phase  of  thought  is  an  advance 
upon  the  former,  bringing  the  footsteps  of  the 
many  nearer  to  the  landmarks  left  by  the  mighty 
climbers  of  the  past  upon  the  mountain  paths  of 
truth.  The  crowd  that  was  satisfied  with  '  The 
Derby  Day  '  now  appreciates  Millet.  The  pub- 
lic that  were  content  to  wag  their  heads  to 
'  The  Bohemian  Girl '  have  made  Wagner 
popular." 

"  And  the  play  lovers,  who  stood  for  hours 
to  listen  to  Shakspere,"  interrupted  the  Phi- 
losopher, "  now  crowd  to  the  music  halls." 


THE  MINOR  POET'S  STOXY. 


161 


"  The  track  sometimes  descends  for  a  little 
way,  but  it  will  wind  upward  again,"  returned 
the  Poet.  "  The  music  hall  itself  is  improving; 
I  consider  it  the  duty  of  every  intellectual  man 
to  visit  such  places.  The  mere  influence  of  his 


presence  helps  to  elevate  the  tone  of  the  per- 
formance.   I  often  go  myself!  " 

"  I  was  looking,"  said  the  Woman  of  the 
World,  "  at  some  old  illustrated  papers  of  thirty 
years  ago,  showing  the  men  dressed  in  those 
very  absurd  trousers,  so  extremely  roomy  about 
the  waist  and  so  extremely  tight  about  the 
ankles.  I  recollect  poor  papa  in  them ;  I  always 
used  to  long  to  fill  them  out  by  pouring  in  saw- 
dust at  the  top." 


1 62  THE  MINOR  POET'S  STORY. 

"  You  mean  the  peg-top  period,"  I  said.  "  I 
remember  them  distinctly  myself,  but  it  cannot 
be  more  than  three-and-twenty  years  ago  at  the 
outside." 

"  That  is  very  nice  of  you,"  replied  the  Wo- 
man of  the  World,  "  and  shows  more  tact  than 
I  should  have  given  you  credit  for.  It  could, 
as  you  say,  have  been  only  twenty-three  years 
ago.  I  know  I  was  a  very  little  girl  at  the  time. 
I  think  there  must  be  some  subtle  connection 
between  clothes  and  thought.  I  cannot  im- 
agine men  in  those  trousers  and  Dundreary 
whiskers  talking  as  you  fellows  are  talking  now, 
any  more  than  I  could  conceive  of  a  woman  in 
a  crinoline  and  a  poke  bonnet  smoking  a  cigar- 
ette. I  think  it  must  be  so,  because  dear 
mother  used  to  be  the  most  easy-going  woman 
in  the  world  in  her  ordinary  clothes,  and  would 
let  papa  smoke  all  over  the  house.  But  about 
once  every  three  weeks  she  would  put  on  a 
hideous,  old-fashioned  black  silk  dress,  that 
looked  as  if  Queen  Elizabeth  must  have  slept 
in  it  during  one  of  those  seasons  when  she  used 
to  go  about  sleeping  anywhere;  and  then  we  all 
had  to  sit  up.  '  Look  out,  ma's  got  her  black 
silk  dress  on ! '  came  to  be  a  regular  formula. 


THE  MINOR  POET'S  STORY.  163 

We  could  always  make  papa  take  us  out  for  a 
walk  or  drive  by  whispering  it  to  him." 

"  I  can  never  bear  to  look  at  those  pictures 
of  bygone  fashions,"  said  the  Old  Maid;  "  I  see 
the  bygone  people  in  them,  and  it  makes  me  feel 
as  though  the  faces  that  we  love  were  only  pass- 
ing fashions  with  the  rest.  We  wear  them  for 
a  little  while  upon  our  hearts,  and  think  so 
much  of  them,  and  then  there  comes  a  time 
when  we  lay  them  by,  and  forget  them,  and 
newer  faces  take  their  place,  and  we  are  satis- 
fied. It  seems  so  sad." 

"  I  wrote  a  story  some  years  ago,"  remarked 
the  Minor  Poet,  "  about  a  young  Swiss  guide, 
who  was  betrothed  to  a  laughing  little  French 
peasant  girl." 

"  Named  Suzette,"  interrupted  the  Girton 
Girl.  "  I  know  her.  Go  on." 

"  Named  Jeanne,"  corrected  the  Poet;  "  the 
majority  of  laughing  French  girls,  in  fiction,  are 
named  Suzette,  I  am  well  aware.  But  this  girl's 
mother's  family  was  English.  She  was  christ- 
ened Jeanne,  after  an  aunt  Jane,  who  lived  in 
Birmingham,  and  from  whom  she  had  ex- 
pectations." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  apologized  the  Girton 


164 


THE  MINOR  POET'S  STORY. 


Girl;  "  I  was  not  aware  of  that  fact.     What  hap- 
pened to  her?  " 

"  One  morning,  a  few  days  before  the  date 
fixed  for  the  wedding,"  said  the  Minor  Poet, 


"  she  started  off  to  pay  a  visit  to  a  relative  liv- 
ing in  the  village  the  other  side  of  the  moun- 
tain. It  was  a  dangerous  track,  climbing  half- 
way up  the  mountain  before  it  descended  again, 
and  skirting  more  than  one  treacherous  slope; 


THE  MIKOR  POET'S  STORY.  165 

but  the  girl  was  mountain  born  and  bred,  sure- 
footed as  a  goat,  and  no  one  dreamed  of  harm." 

"  She  went  over,  of  course,"  said  the  Phi- 
losopher; "  those  sure-footed  girls  always  do." 

"  What  happened,"  replied  the  Minor  Poet, 
"  was  never  known.  The  girl  was  never  seen 
again." 

"  And  what  became  of  her  lover?  "  asked  the 
Girton  Girl.  "  Was  he,  when  next  year's  snow 
melted,  and  the  young  men  of  the  village  went 
forth  to  gather  edelweiss  wherewith  to  deck 
their  sweethearts,  found  by  them  dead  beside 
her  at  the  bottom  of  the  crevasse?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  Poet;  "  you  do  not  know  this 
story,  you  had  better  let  me  tell  it.  Her  lover 
returned  the  morning  before  the  wedding  day, 
to  be  met  with  the  news.  He  gave  way  to  no 
sign  of  grief,  he  repelled  all  consolation.  Tak- 
ing his  rope  and  ax  he  went  up  into  the  moun- 
tain by  himself.  All  through  the  winter  he 
haunted  the  track  by  which  she  must  have  trav- 
eled, indifferent  to  the  danger  that  he  ran,  im- 
pervious apparently  to  cold,  or  hunger,  or 
fatigued,  undeterred  by  storm,  or  mist,  or  ava- 
lanche. At  the  beginning  of  the  spring  he 


166  THE  MINOR  POET'S  STORY. 

returned  to  the  village,  purchased  building 
utensils,  and  day  after  day  carried  them  back 
with  him  up  into  the  mountain.  He  hired  no 
labor,  he  rejected  the  proffered  assistance  of  his 
brother  guides.  Choosing  an  almost  inacces- 
sible spot,  at  the  edge  of  the  great  glacier,  far 
from  all  paths,  he  built  himself  a  hut  with  his 
own  hands;  and  there  for  eighteen  years  he 
lived  alone. 

"  In  the  '  season  '  he  earned  good  fees,  being 
known  far  and  wide  as  one  of  the  bravest  and 
hardiest  of  all  the  guides;  but  few  of  his  clients 
liked  him,  for  he  was  a  silent,  gloomy  man, 
speaking  little,  and  with  never  a  laugh  or  jest 
on  the  journey.  Each  fall,  having  provisioned 
himself,  he  would  retire  to  his  solitary  hut  and 
bar  the  door,  and  no  human  soul  would  set  eyes 
on  him  again  until  the  snows  melted. 

"  One  year,  however,  as  the  spring  days  wore 
on,  and  he  did  not  appear  among  the  guides, 
as  was  his  wont,  the  elder  men,  who  remem- 
bered his  story  and  pitied  him,  grew  uneasy; 
and,  after  much  deliberation,  it  was  determined 
that  a  party  of  them  should  force  their  way  up 
to  his  eyrie.  They  cut  their  path  across  the  ice 


THE  MINOR  POET'S    STORY. 


167 


where  no  foot  among  them  had  trodden  before, 
and  finding  at  length  the  lonely,  snow-encom- 
passed hut,  knocked  loudly  with  their  ax-staves 
on  the  door;  but  only  the  whirling  echoes  from 
the  glacier's  thousand  walls  replied,  so  the  fore- 


most put  his  strong  shoulder  to  the  worn  tim- 
ber, and  the  door  flew  open  with  a  crash. 

"  They  found  him  dead,  as  they  had  more 
than  half  expected,  lying  stiff  and  frozen  on  the 
rough  couch  at  the  farther  end  of  the  hut;  and 
beside  him,  looking  down  upon  him  with  a 
placid  face,  as  a  mother  might  watch  beside  her 
sleeping  child,  stood  Jeanne.  She  wore  the 


1 68  THE  MINOR  POET'S  STORY. 

flowers  pinned  to  her  dress  that  she  had  gath- 
ered that  morning  when  their  eyes  had  last 
seen  her.  The  face  was  the  girl's  face  that  had 
laughed  back  to  their  good-by  in  the  village 
nineteen  years  ago. 

"  A  strange,  steely  light  clung  round  her, 
half  illuminating,  half  obscuring  her;  and  the 
men  drew  back  in  fear,  thinking  they  saw  a 
vision,  till  one,  bolder  than  the  rest,  stretched 
out  his  hand  and  touched  the  ice  that  formed 
her  coffin. 

"  For  eighteen  years  the  man  had  lived  there 
with  this  face  that  he  had  loved.  A  faint  flush 
still  lingered  on  the  fair  cheeks,  the  laughing 
lips  were  still  red.  Only  in  one  spot,  above  her 
temple,  the  wavy  hair  lay  matted  underneath  a 
clot  of  blood." 

The  Minor  Poet  ceased. 

"  What  a  very  unpleasant  way  of  preserving 
one's  love!  "  said  the  Girton  Girl. 

"  When  did  the  story  appear?  "  I  asked.  "  I 
don't  remember  reading  it." 

"  I  never  published  it,"  explained  the  Minor 
Poet.  "  Within  the  same  week  two  friends  of 
mine,  one  of  whom  had  just  returned  from  Nor- 


THE  MINOR  POET'S  STORY. 


169 


way,  and  the  other  from  Switzerland,  confided 
to  me  their  intention  of  writing  stories  about 
girls  who  had  fallen  into  glaciers  and  been  found 
by  their  friends  long  afterward,  looking  as 
good  as  new;  and  a  few  days  later  I  chanced 
l\ 


upon  a  book,  the  heroine  of  which  had  been 
dug  out  of  a  glacier  alive  three  hundred  years 
after  she  had  fallen  in.  There  seemed  to  be  a 
run  on  ice  maidens,  and  I  decided  not  to  add  to 
their  number." 

"  It  is  curious,"  said  the  Philosopher,  "  how 
there  seems  to  be  a  fashion  even  in  thought. 
An  idea  has  often  occurred  to*  me  that  has 
seemed  to  me  quite  new;  and,  taking  up  a  news- 
paper I  have  found  that  some  men  in  Russia 
or  San  Francisco  has  just  been  saying  the  very 


1 7°  THE  MINOR  POET'S  STORY. 

same  thing  in  almost  the  very  same  words.  We 
say  a  thing  is  '  in  the  air  ';  it  is  more  true  than 
we  are  aware  of.  Thought  does  not  grow  in 
us.  It  is  a  thing  apart;  we  simply  gather  it. 
All  truths,  all  discoveries,  all  inventions,  they 
have  not  come  to  us  from  any  one  man.  The 
time  grows  ripe  for  them,  and  from  this  cor- 
ner of  the  earth  and  that,  hands  guided  by  some 
instinct  grope  for  and  grasp  them.  Buddha 
and  Christ  seize  hold  of  the  morality  needful  to 
civilization,  and  promulgate  it,  unknown  to  one 
another,  the  one  on  the  shores  of  the  Ganges, 
the  other  by  the  Jordan.  A  dozen  forgotten 
explorers,  feeling  America,  prepare  the  way  for 
Columbus  to  discover  it.  A  deluge  of  blood  is 
required  to  sweep  away  old  follies,  and  Rous- 
seau and  Voltaire,  and  a  myraid  others,  are  set 
to  work  to  fashion  the  storm  clouds.  The 
steam  engine,  the  spinning  loom,  is  '  in  the  air.' 
A  thousand  brains  are  busy  with  them;  a  few 
go  farther  than  the  rest.  It  is  idle  to  talk  of 
human  thought;  there  is  no  such  thing.  Our 
minds  are  fed  as  our  bodies  with  the  food  God 
has  prepared  for  us.  Thought  hangs  by  the 
wayside,  and  we  pick  it  and  cook  it  and  eat  it, 


THE  MINOR  POET'S  STORY.  1 7* 

and  then  cry  out  what  clever  '  thinkers  '  we 
are!" 

"  I  cannot  agree  with  you,"  replied  the  Minor 
Poet;  "if  we  were  simply  automata,  as  your 
argument  would  suggest,  what  was  the  purpose 
of  creating  us?  " 

"  The  intelligent  portion  of  mankind  has 
been  asking  itself  that  question  for  many  ages," 
returned  the  Philosopher. 

"  I  hate  people  who  always  think  as  I  do," 
said  the  Girton  Girl;  "  there  was  a  girl  in  our 
corridor  who  never  would  disagree  with  me. 
Every  opinion  I  expressed  turned  out  to  be  her 
opinion  also.  It  always  irritated  me." 

"  That  might  have  been  weakmindedness," 
said  the  Old  Maid,  which  sounded  ambiguous. 

"  It  is  not  so  unpleasant  as  having  a  person 
always  disagreeing  with  you,"  said  the  Woman 
of  the  World.  "  My  cousin  Susan  would  never 
agree  with  anyone.  If  I  came  down  in  red  she 
would  say,  '  Why  don't  you  try  green,  dear? 
Everyone  says  you  look  so  well  in  green  ';  and 
when  I  wore  green  she  would  say,  '  Why  have 
you  given  up  red,  dear?  I  thought  you  rather 
fancied  yourself  in  red.'  When  I  told  her  of 


172  THE   MINOR  POET'S  STORY. 

my  engagement  to  Tom,  she  burst  into  tears, 
and  said  she  couldn't  help  it.  She  had  always 
felt  that  George  and  I  were  intended  for  one 
another;  and  when  Tom  never  wrote  for  two 
whole  months,  and  behaved  disgracefully  in — 
in  other  ways,  and  I  told  her  I  was  engaged  to 
George,  she  reminded  me  of  every  word  I  had 
ever  said  about  my  affection  for  Tom,  and  of 
how  I  had  ridiculed  poor  George.  Papa  used 
to  say,  '  If  any  man  ever  tells  Susan  that  he 
loves  her,  she  will  argue  him  out  of  it,  and  will 
never  accept  him  until  he  has  jilted  her,  and  will 
refuse  to  marry  him  every  time  he  asks  her  to 
fix  the  day.'  " 

"  Is  she  married?  "  asked  the  Philosopher. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  answered  the  Woman  of  the 
World;  "and  is  devoted  to  her  children.  She 
lets  them  do  everything  they  don't  want  to." 


THE   CITY   OF   THE   SEA. 

HEY  say,  the  chroniclers  who  have 
written  the  history  of  that  low-lying, 
wind-swept  coast,  that  years  ago  the 
foam  fringe  of  the  ocean  lay  further 
to  the  east;  so  that  where  now  the  North  Sea 
creeps  among  the  treacherous  sand-reefs,  it  was 
once  dry  land.  In  those  days,  between  the 
Abbey  and  the  sea  there  stood  a  town  of  seven 
towers  and  four  rich  churches,  surrounded  by  a 
wall  of  twelve  stones'  thickness,  making  it,  as 
men  reckoned  then,  a  place  of  strength  and 
much  import;  and  the  monks,  glancing  their 
eyes  downward  from  the  Abbey  garden  on  the 
hill,  saw  beneath  their  feet  its  narrow  streets, 
gay  with  the  ever-passing  of  rich  merchandise; 
saw  its  many  wharves  and  waterways,  ever  noisy 
with  the  babel  of  strange  tongues;  saw  its  many 
painted  masts,  wagging  their  grave  heads  above 
the  dormer  roofs  and  quaintly-carved  oak 
gables. 


174  THE    CITY  OF    THE   SEA. 

Thus  the  town  prospered  till  there  came  a 
night  when  it  did  evil  in  the  sight  of  God  and 
man.  Those  were  troublous  times  to  Saxon 
dwellers  by  the  sea,  for  the  Danish  water-rats 
swarmed  round  each  river  mouth,  scenting 
treasure  from  afar;  and  by  none  was  the  white 
flash  of  their  sharp,  strong  teeth  more  often 
seen  than  by  the  men  of  Eastern  Anglia,  and 
by  none  in  Eastern  Anglia  more  often  than  by 
the  watchers  on  the  walls  of  the  town  of  seven 
towers  that  once  stood  upon  the  dry  land,  but 
which  now  lies  twenty  fathoms  deep  below  the 
waters.  Many  a  bloody  fight  raged  now  with- 
out and  now  within  its  wall  of  twelve  stones' 
thickness.  Many  a  groan  of  dying  man,  many 
a  shriek  of  murdered  woman,  many  a  wail  of 
mangled  child,  knocked  at  the  Abbey  door  upon 
its  way  to  heaven,  calling  the  trembling  monks 
from  their  beds  to  pray  for  the  souls  that  were 
passing  by. 

But  at  length  peace  came  to  the  long- 
troubled  land;  Dane  and  Saxon  agreeing  to 
dwell  in  friendship  side  by  side,  East  Anglia  be- 
ing wide,  and  there  being  room  for  both.  And 
all  men  rejoiced  greatly,  for  all  were  weary  of  a 


THE   CITY  OF    THE   SEA.  175 

strife  in  which  little  had  been  gained  on  either 
side  beyond  hard  blows;  and  their  thoughts 
were  of  the  ingle-nook.  So  the  long-bearded 
Danes,  their  thirsty  axes  harmless  on  their 
backs,  passed  to  and  fro  in  straggling  bands, 
seeking  where,  undisturbed  and  undisturbing, 
they  might  build  their  homes;  and  thus  it  came 
about  that  Haarfager  and  his  company,  as  the 
sun  was  going  down,  drew  near  to  the  town  of 
seven  towers,  that  in  those  days  stood  on  dry 
land  between  the  Abbey  and  the  sea. 

And  the  men  of  the  town,  seeing  the  Danes, 
opened  wide  their  gates,  saying: 

"  We  have  fought,  but  now  there  is  peace. 
Enter,  and  make  merry  with  us,  and  to-morrow 
go  your  way." 

But  Haarfager  made  answer: 

"  I  am  an  old  man,  I  pray  you  do  not  take 
my  word  amiss.  There  is  peace  between  us,  as 
you  say;  and  we  thank  you  for  your  courtesy, 
but  the  stains  are  still  fresh  upon  our  swords. 
Let  us  camp  here  without  your  walls;  and  a  lit- 
tle later,  when  the  grass  has  grown  upon  the 
fields  where  we  have  striven,  and  our  young  men 
have  had  time  to  forget,  we  will  make  merry  to- 


l?6  THE   CITY  OF    THE   SEA. 

gather,  as  men  should  who  dwell  side  by  side  in 
the  same  land." 

But  the  men  of  the  town  still  urged  Haar- 
fager,  calling  his  people  neighbors;  and  the 
Abbot,  who  had  hastened  down,  fearing  there 
might  be  strife,  added  his  words  to  theirs, 
saying: 

"  Pass  in,  my  children.  Let  there,  indeed,  be 
peace  between  you,  that  the  blessing  of  God 
may  be  upon  the  land,  and  upon  both  Dane  and 
Saxon  ";  for  the  Abbot  saw  that  the  townsmen 
were  well  disposed  toward  the  Danes,  and  knew 
that  men,  when  they  have  feasted  and  drunk  to- 
gether, think  kinder  of  one  another. 

Then  answered  Haarfager,  who  knew  the 
Abbot  for  a  holy  man: 

"  Hold  up  your  staff,  my  father,  that  the 
shadow  of  the  cross  your  people  worship  may 
fall  upon  our  path,  so  we  will  pass  into  the  town 
and  there  shall  be  peace  between  us;  for  though 
your  gods  are  not  our  gods,  faith  between  man 
and  man  is  of  all  altars." 

And  the  Abbot  held  his  staff  aloft  between 
Haarfager's  people  and  the  sun,  it  being  fash- 
ioned in  the  form  of  a  cross,  and  under  its 


THE  ABBOT   HELD  HIS  STAFF  ALOFT 


THE    CITY  OF   THE   SEA.  177 

shadow  the  Danes  passed  by  into  the  town  of 
seven  towers,  there  being  with  them,  with  the 
women  and  the  children,  nearly  two  thousand 
souls,  and  the  gates  were  made  fast  behind 
them. 

So  they  who  had  fought  face  to  face  feasted 
side  by  side,  pledging  one  another  in  the  wine 
cup,  as  was  the  custom;  and  Haarfager's  men, 
knowing  themselves  among  friends,  had  cast 
aside  their  arms;  and  when  the  feast  was  done, 
being  weary,  they  lay  down  to  sleep. 

Then  an  evil  voice  arose  in  the  town,  and  said: 
"  Who  are  these  that  have  come  among  us  to 
share  our  land?  Are  not  the  stones  of  our 
streets  red  with  the  blood  of  wife  and  child  that 
they  have  slain?  Do  men  let  the  wolf  go  free 
when  they  have  trapped  him  with  meat?  Let 
us  fall  upon  them  now  that  they  are  heavy  with 
food  and  wine,  so  that  not  one  among  them  shall 
escape.  Thus  no  further  harm  shall  come  to  us 
from  them  nor  from  their  children." 

And  the  voice  of  evil  prevailed;  and  the  men 
of  the  town  of  seven  towers  fell  upon  the  Danes 
with  whom  they  had  broken  meat,  even  to  the 
women  and  the  little  children;  and  the  blood  of 


178  THE   CITY  OF    THE   SEA. 

the  people  of  Haarfager  cried  with  a  loud  voice 
at  the  Abbey  door;  through  the  long  night  it 
cried,  saying: 

"  I  trusted  in  your  spoken  word.  I  broke 
meat  with  you.  I  put  my  faith  in  you  and  in 
your  God.  I  passed  beneath  the  shadow  of 
your  cross  to  enter  your  doors.  Let  your  God 
make  answer! " 

Nor  was  there  silence  till  the  dawn. 

Then  the  Abbot  rose  from  where  he  knelt  and 
called  to  God,  saying: 

"  Thou  hast  heard,  O  God.     Make  answer." 

And  there  came  a  great  sound  from  the  sea 
as  though  a  tongue  had  been  given  to  the  deep, 
so  that  the  monks  fell  upon  their  knees  in  fear; 
but  the  Abbot  answered: 

"  It  is  the  voice  of  God,  speaking  through  the 
waters.  He  hath  made  answer." 

And  that  winter  a  mighty  storm  rose,  the  like 
of  which  no  man  had  known  before;  for  the  sea 
was  piled  upon  the  dry  land  until  the  highest 
tower  of  the  town  of  seven  towers  was  not  more 
high;  and  the  waters  moved  forward  over  the 
dry  land.  And  the  men  of  the  town  of  seven 
towers  fled  from  the  oncoming  of  the  waters, 


THE    CITY  OF    THE   SEA.  179 

but  the  waters  overtook  them  so  that  not  one  of 
them  escaped.  And  the  town  of  the  seven 
towers,  and  of  the  four  churches,  and  of  the 
many  streets  and  quays,  was  buried  underneath 
the  waters;  and  the  feet  of  the  waters  still 
moved  till  they  came  to  the  hill  whereon  the 
Abbey  stood.  Then  the  Abbot  prayed  to  God 
that  the  waters  might  be  stayed,  and  God 
heard,  and  the  sea  came  no  farther. 

And  that  this  tale  is  true,  and  not  a  fable 
made  by  the  weavers  of  words,  he  who  doubts 
may  know  from  the  fisher-folk,  who  to-day  ply 
their  calling  among  the  reefs  and  sandbanks  of 
that  lonely  coast.  For  there  are  those  among 
them  who,  peering  from  the  bows  of  their 
small  craft,  have  seen  far  down  beneath  their 
keels  a  city  of  strange  streets  and  many  quays. 
But  as  to  this,  I,  who  repeat  these  things  to 
you,  cannot  speak  of  my  own  knowledge,  for 
this  city  of  the  sea  is  only  visible  when  a  rare 
wind,  blowing  from  the  north,  sweeps  the 
shadows  from  the  waves;  and  though  on  many 
a  sunny  day  I  have  drifted  where  its  seven 
towers  should  once  have  stood,  yet  for  me  .that 
wind  has  never  blown,  pushing  back  the  cur- 


180  THE    CITY  OF   THE   SEA. 

tains  of  the  sea,  and,  therefore,  I  have  strained 
my  eyes  in  vain. 

But  this  I  do  know,  that  the  crumbling  stones 
of  that  ancient  Abbey,  between  which  and  the 
foam  fringe  of  the  ocean  the  town  of  seven 
towers  once  lay,  now  stand  upon  a  wave-washed 
cliff,  and  that  he  who  looks  forth  from  its 
shattered  mullions  to-day  sees  only  the  marsh- 
land and  the  wrinkled  waters,  hears  only  the 
plaint  of  the  circling  gulls  and  the  weary  crying 
of  the  sea. 

And  that  God's  anger  is  not  everlasting,  and 
that  the  evil  that  there  is  in  men  shall  be  blotted 
out,  he  who  doubts  may  also  learn  from  the  wis- 
dom of  the  simple  fisher-folk  who  dwell  about 
the  borders  of  the  marshland;  for  they  will  tell 
him  that  on  stormy  nights  there  speaks  a  deep 
voice  from  the  sea,  calling  the  dead  monks  to 
rise  from  their  forgotten  graves  and  chant  a 
mass  for  the  souls  of  the  men  of  the  town  of 
seven  towers.  Clothed  in  long  glittering 
white  they  move  with  slowly  pacing  feet  around 
the  Abbey's  grass-grown  aisles,  and  the  music  of 
their  prayers  is  heard  above  the  screaming  of 
the  storm.  And  to  this  I  also  can  bear  witness, 


THE   CITY  OF   THE  SEA.  181 

for  I  have  seen  the  passing  of  their  shrouded 
forms  behind  the  blackness  of  the  shattered 
shafts;  I  have  heard  their  sweet,  sad  singing 
above  the  wailing  of  the  wind. 

Thus  for  many  ages  have  the  dead  monks 
prayed  that  the  men  of  the  town  of  seven 
towers  may  be  forgiven.  Thus,  for  many  ages 
yet  shall  they  so  pray  till  the  day  come  when 
of  their  once  fair  Abbey  not  a  single  stone  shall 
stand  upon  its  fellow;  and  in  that  day  it  shall  be 
known  that  the  anger  of  God  against  the  men  of 
the  town  of  seven  towers  has  passed  away;  and 
in  that  day  the  feet  of  the  waters  shall  move 
back,  and  the  town  of  seven  towers  shall  stand 
again  upon  the  dry  land. 

There  be  some,  I  know,  who  say  that  this  is 
but  a  legend;  who  will  tell  you  that  the  shadowy 
shapes  that  you  may  see  with  your  own  eyes  on 
stormy  nights,  waving  their  gleaming  arms  be- 
hind the  ruined  buttresses,  are  but  of  phos- 
phorescent foam,  tossed  by  the  raging  waves 
above  the  cliffs;  and  that  the  sweet,  sad  har- 
mony, cleaving  the  trouble  of  the  night,  is  but 
the  aeolian  music  of  the  wind. 

But  such  are  of  the  blind,  who  see  only  with 


182 


THE   CITY  OF    THE   SEA. 


their  eyes.  For  my- 
self I  see  the  white- 
robed  monks,  and 
hear  the  chanting 
of  their  mass  for 
the  souls  of  the  sin- 
ful men  of  the  town 
of  seven  towers. 
For  it  has  been  said 
that  when  an  evil 
deed  is  done  a 
prayer  is  born  to 
follow  it  through 
time  into  eternity,  and  plead  for  it.  Thus  is 
the  whole  world  clasped  around  with  folded 


THE   CITY  OF   THE   SEA.  183 

hands  both  of  the  dead  and  of  the  living, 
as  with  a  shield,  lest  the  shafts  of  God's  anger 
should  consume  it. 

Therefore,  I  know  that  the  good  monks  of 
this  nameless  Abbey  still  are  praying  that  the 
sin  of  those  they  loved  may  be  forgiven. 

God  grant  good  men  may  say  a  mass  for  us. 


CHARACTERSCAPES. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WENT  WRONG. 

[FIRST  met  Jack  Burridge  nearly  ten 
years  ago  on  a  certain  North-country 
racecourse.  The  saddling  bell  had 
just  rung  for  the  chief  event  of  the 
day.  I  was  sauntering  along  with  my  hands  in 
my  pockets,  more  interested  in  the  crowd  than 
in  the  race,  when  a  sporting  friend,  crossing  on 
his  way  to  the  paddock,  seized  me  by  the  arm 
and  whispered  hoarsely  in  my  ear: 
"  Put  your  shirt  on  Mrs.  Waller." 

"  Put  my ?  "  I  began. 

"  Put  your  shirt  on  Mrs.  Waller,"  he  repeated 
still  more  impressively,  and  disappeared  in  the 
throng. 

I  stared  after  him  in  blank  amazement.     Why 

should  I  put  my  shirt  on  Mrs.  Waller?     Even 

if  it  would  fit  a  lady.     And  how  about  myself? 

I  was  passing  the  grand  stand,  and,  glancing 

up,    I    saw:    "  Mrs.    Waller,    twelve    to    one," 


1 88  THE  MAN    WHO    WENT    WRONG. 

chalked  on  a  bookmaker's  board.  Then  it 
dawned  upon  me  that  "  Mrs.  Waller  "  was  a 
horse,  and,  thinking  further  upon  the  matter,  1 
evolved  the  idea  that  my  friend's  advice,  ex- 
pressed in  more  becomirig  language,  was,  "Back 
Mrs.  Waller  for  as  much  as  you  can  possibly 
afford." 

"  Thank  you,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  I  have 
backed  cast-iron  certainties  before.  Next  time 
I  bet  upon  a  horse  I  shall  make  the  selection  by 
shutting  my  eyes  and  putting  a  pin  through  the 
card." 

But  the  seed  had  taken  root.  My  friend's 
words  surged  in  my  brain.  The  birds  passing 
overhead  twittered,  "  Put  your  shirt  on  Mrs. 
Waller." 

I  reasoned  with  myself,  I  reminded  myself  of 
my  few  former  ventures.  But  the  craving  to 
put,  if  not  my  shirt,  at  all  events  half  a  sovereign 
on  Mrs.  Waller,  only  grew  the  stronger  the  more 
strongly  I  battled  against  it.  I  felt  that  if  Mrs. 
Waller  won  and  I  had  nothing  on  her  I  should 
reproach  myself  to  my  dying  day. 

I  was  the  other  side  of  the  course.  There 
was  no  time  to  get  back  to  the  inclosure.  The 


THE  MAN    WHO    WENT    WRONG.  189 

horses  were  already  forming  for  the  start.  A 
few  yards  off,  under  a  white  umbrella,  an 
outside  bookmaker  was  shouting  his  final 
prices  in  stentorian  tones.  He  was  a  big, 
genial-looking  man,  with  an  honest  red  face. 

"  What  price  Mrs.  Waller?  "  I  asked  him. 

"  Fourteen  to  one,"  he  asked,  "  and  good  luck 
to  you." 

I  handed  him  half  a  sovereign,  and  he  wrote 
me  out  a  ticket.  I  crammed  it  into  my  waist- 
coat pocket,  and  hurried  off  to  see  the  race. 
To  my  intense  astonishment  Mrs.  Waller  won. 
The  novel  sensation  of  having  backed  the  win- 
ner so  excited  me  that  I  forgot  all  about  my 
money,  and  it  was  not  until  a  good  hour  after- 
ward that  I  recollected  my  bet. 

Then  I  started  off  to  search  for  the  man  under 
the  white  umbrella.  I  went  to  where  I  thought 
I  had  left  him,  but  no  white  umbrella  could  I 
find. 

Consoling  myself  with  the  reflection  that  my 
loss  served  me  right  for  having  been  fool  enough 
to  trust  an  outside  "  bookie,"  I  turned  on  my 
heel,  and  began  to  make  my  way  back  to  my 
seat.  Suddenly  a  voice  hailed  me: 


19°  THE  MAN    WHO    WENT    WRONG. 

11  Here  you  are,  sir.  It's  Jack  Burridge  you 
want.  Over  here,  sir." 

I  looked  round,  and  there  was  Jack  Burridge 
at  my  elbow. 

"  I  saw  you  looking  about,  sir,"  he  said;  "  but 
I  could  not  make  you  hear.  You  was  looking 
the  wrong  side  of  the  tent." 

It  was  pleasant  to  find  that  his  honest  face 
had  not  belied  him. 

"  It  is  very  good  of  you,"  I  said;  "  I  had  given 
up  all  hopes  of  seeing  you.  Or,"  I  added  with 
a  smile,  "  my  seven  pounds." 

"  Seven  pun'  ten,"  he  corrected  me;  "  you're 
forgetting  your  own  thin  'un." 

He  handed  me  the  money  and  went  back  to 
his  stand. 

On  my  way  into  the  town  I  came  across  him 
again.  A  small  crowd  was  collected,  thought- 
fully watching  a  tramp  knocking  about  a  miser- 
able-looking woman. 

Jack,  pushing  to  the  front,  took  in  the  scene 
and  took  off  his  coat  in  the  same  instant. 

"  Now,  then,  my  fine  old  English  gentleman," 
he  sang  out,  "  come  and  have  a  try  at  a  man  for 
a  change." 


THE  MAN    WHO    WENT    WRONG.  191 

The  tramp  was  a  burly  ruffian,  and  I  have  seen 
better  boxers  than  Jack.  He  got  himself  a 
black  eye,  and  a  nasty  cut  over  the  lip,  before 
he  hardly  knew  where  he  was.  But  in  spite  of 
that — and  a  good  deal  more — he  stuck  to  his 
man  and  finished  him. 

At  the  end,  as  he  helped  his  adversary  up,  I 
heard  him  say  to  the  fellow  in  a  kindly  whisper: 

"  You're  too  good  a  sort,  you  know,  to  wallop 
a  wench.  Why,  you  very  near  give  me  a  lick- 
ing. You  must  have  forgot  yourself,  matey." 

The  fellow  interested  me.  I  waited  and 
walked  on  with  him.  He  told  me  about  his 
home  in  London,  at  Mile  End — about  his  old 
father  and  mother,  his  little  brothers  and  sisters 
— and  what  he  was  saving  up  to  do  for  them. 
Kindliness  oozed  from  every  pore  in  his  skin. 

Many  that  we  met  knew  him,  and  all,  when 
they  saw  his  round,  red  face,  smiled  uncon- 
sciously. At  the  corner  of  the  High  Street  a 
pale-faced  little  drudge  of  a  girl  passed  us,  say- 
ing as  she  slipped  by: 

"  Good-evening,  Mr.  Burridge." 

He  made  a  dart  and  caught  her  by  the 
shoulder. 


192  THE  MAN    WHO    WENT    WRONG. 

"  And  how  is  father?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Burridge,  he  is  out 
again.  All  the  mills  is  closed,"  answered  the 
child. 


He  closed  the  child's  hand  upon  them. 

"  And  mother?  " 
"  She  don't  get  no  better,  sir." 
"  And  who's  keeping  you  all?  " 
"  Oh,  if  you  please,  sir,  Jimmy's  earning  some- 
thing now,"  replied  the  mite. 


THE  MAN    WHO    WENT    WRONG.  193 

He  took  a  couple  of  sovereigns  from  his 
waistcoat  pocket,  and  closed  the  child's  hand 
upon  them. 

"  That's  all  right,  my  lass,  that's  all  right,"  he 
said,  stopping  her  stammering  thanks.  "  You 
write  to  me  if  things  don't  get  better.  You 
know  where  to  find  Jack  Burridge." 

Strolling  about  the  streets  in  the  evening,  I 
happened  to  pass  the  inn  where  he  was  staying. 
The  parlor  window  was  open,  and  out  into  the 
misty  night  his  deep,  cheery  voice,  trolling  forth 
an  old-fashioned  drinking  song,  came  rolling 
like  a  wind,  cleansing  the  corners  of  one's  heart 
with  its  breezy  humanness.  He  was  sitting  at 
the  head  of  the  table  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of 
jovial  cronies.  I  lingered  for  a  while  watching 
the  scene.  It  made  the  world  appear  a  less 
somber  dwelling  place  than  I  had  sometimes 
pictured  it. 

I  determined,  on  my  return  to  London,  to 
look  him  up,  and  accordingly  one  evening 
started  to  find  the  little  by-street  off  the  Mile 
End  Road  in  which  he  lived.  As  I  turned  the 
corner  he  drove  up  in  his  dog-cart;  it  was  a 
smart  turnout.  On  the  seat  beside  him  sat  a 


194  THE  MAN    WHO    WENT    WRONG. 

neat,  withered  little  old  woman,  whom  he  intro- 
duced to  me  as  his  mother. 

"  I  tell  'im  it's  a  fine  gell  as  'e  oughter  'ave  up 
'ere  aside  'im,"  said  the  old  lady,  preparing  to 
dismount;  "  an  old  woman  like  me  takes  all  the 
paint  off  the  show." 

"  Get  along  with  yer,"  he  replied  laughingly, 
jumping  down  and  handing  the  reins  to  the  lad 
who  had  been  waiting,  "  you  could  give  some  of 
the  young  uns  points  yet,  mother." 

"  I  allus  promised  the  old  lady  as  she  should 
ride  behind  her  own  'oss  one  day,"  he  continued, 
turning  to  me,  "  didn't  I,  mother?  " 

"  Ay,  ay,"  replied  the  old  soul,  as  she  hobbled 
nimbly  up  the  steps,  "  ye're  a  good  son,  Jack, 
ye're  a  good  son." 

He  led  the  way  into  the  parlor.  As  he 
entered  every  face  lightened  up  with  pleasure,  a 
harmony  of  joyous  welcome  greeted  him.  The 
old  hard  world  had  been  shut  out  with  the  slam 
of  the  front  door.  I  seemed  to  have  wandered 
into  Dickensland.  The  red-faced  man  with  the 
small  twinkling  eyes  and  the  lungs  of  leather 
loomed  before  me,  a  large,  fat  household  fairy. 
From  his  capacious  pockets  came  forth  tobacco 


THE   MAN    WHO    WENT    WRONG.  195 

for  the  old  father;  a  huge  bunch  of  hot-house 
grapes  for  a  neighbor's  sickly  child,  who  was 
stopping  with  them;  a  book  of  Henty's — be- 
loved of  boys — for  a  noisy  youngster  who 
called  him  "  uncle  ";  a  bottle  of  port  wine  for  a 
wan,  elderly  woman  with  a  swollen  face — his 
widowed  sister-in-law,  as  I  subsequently  learned; 
sweets  enough  for  the  baby  (whose  baby  I  don't 
know)  to  make  it  sick  for  a  week;  and  a  roll  of 
music  for  his  youngest  sister. 

"  We're  a-going  to  make  a  lady  of  her,"  he 
said,  drawing  the  child's  shy  face  against  his 
gaudy  waistcoat,  and  running  his  coarse  hand 
through  her  pretty  curls;  "  and  she  shall  marry 
a  jockey  when  she  grows  up." 

After  supper  he  brewed  some  excellent 
whisky  punch,  and  insisted  upon  the  old  lady 
joining  us,  which  she  eventually  did  with  much 
coughing  and  protestation;  but  I  noticed  that 
she  finished  the  tumblerful.  For  the  children 
he  concocted  a  marvelous  mixture,  which  he 
called  an  "  eye-composer,"  the  chief  ingredients 
being  hot  lemonade,  ginger  wine,  sugar, 
oranges,  and  raspberry  vinegar.  It  had  the  de- 
sired effect. 


196  THE  MAN    WHO    WENT    WRONG. 

I  stayed  till  late,  listening  to  his  inexhaustible 
fund  of  stories.  Over  most  of  them  he  laughed 
with  us  himself — a  great  gusty  laugh  that  made 
the  cheap  glass  ornaments  upon  the  mantel- 
piece to  tremble;  but  now  and  then  a  recollec- 
tion came  to  him  that  spread  a  sudden  gravity 
across  his  jovial  face  and  brought  a  curious 
quaver  into  his  deep  voice. 

Their  tongues  a  little  loosened  by  the  punch, 
the  old  folks  would  have  sung  his  praises  to  the 
verge  of  tediousness  had  he  not  almost  sternly 
interrupted  them. 

"  Shut  up,  mother,"  he  cried  at  last,  quite 
gruffly;  "what  I  does  I  does  to  please  myself. 
I  likes  to  see  people  comfortable  about  me.  If 
they  wasn't  it's  me  as  would  be  more  upset  than 
them." 

I  did  not  see  him  again  for  nearly  two  years. 
Then  one  October  evening,  strolling  about  the 
East  End,  I  met  him  coming  out  of  a  little 
chapel  in  the  Burdett  Road.  He  was  so 
changed  that  I  should  not  have  known  him  had 
not  I  overheard  a  woman  as  she  passed  him  say, 
"  Good-evening,  Mr.  Burridge!  " 


THE  MAN    WHO    WENT    WRONG.  197 

A  pair  of  bushy  side  whiskers  had  given  to 
his  red  face  an  aggressively  respectable  appear- 
ance. He  was  dressed  in  an  ill-fitting  suit  of 
black,  and  carried  an  umbrella  in  one  hand  and  a 
book  in  the  other.  In  some  mysterious  way  he 
managed  to  look  both  thinner  and  shorter  than 
my  recollection  of  him.  Altogether,  he  sug- 
gested to  me  the  idea  that  he  himself — the  real 
man — had  by  some  means  or  another  been  ex- 
tracted, leaving  only  this  shrunken  husk  behind. 
The  genial  juices  of  humanity  had  been  squeezed 
out  of  him. 

"Not  Jack  Burridge!"  I  exclaimed,  con- 
fronting him  in  astonishment. 

His  little  eyes  wandered  shiftily  up  and  down 
the  street.  "  No,  sir,"  he  replied  (his  tones  had 
lost  their  windy  boisterousness — a  hard,  metallic 
voice  spoke  to  me),  "  not  the  one  as  you  used  to 
know,  praise  be  the  Lord." 

"  And  you  have  given  up  the  old  business?  " 
I  asked. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  he  replied  "  that's  all  over;  I've 
been  a  vile  sinner  in  my  time,  God  forgive  me  for 
it.  But,  thank  Heaven,  I  have  repented  in 
time." 


I98  THE  MAN    WHO    WENT    WRONG. 

"  Come  and  have  a  drink,"  I  said,  slipping  my 
arm  through  his,  "  and  tell  me  all  about  it." 

He  disengaged  himself  from  me  firmly,  but 
gently.  "  You  mean  well,  sir,"  he  said,  "  but 
I  have  given  up  the  drink." 

He  would  evidently  have  been  rid  of  me,  but 
a  literary  man,  scenting  material  for  his  stock- 
pot,  is  not  easily  shaken  off.  I  asked  after  the 
old  folks,  and  if  they  were  still  stopping  with 
him. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  for  the  present.  Of  course, 
a  man  can't  be  expected  to  keep  people  forever; 
so  many  mouths  to  fill  is  hard  work  these  times, 
and  everybody  sponges  on  a  man  just  because 
he's  good-natured." 

"  And  how  are  you  getting  on?  "  I  asked. 

"  Tolerably  well,  thank  you,  sir.  The  Lord 
provides  for  his  servants,"  he  replied,  with  a 
smug  smile.  "  I  have  got  a  little  shop  now  in 
the  Commercial  Road." 

"  Whereabouts?  "  I  persisted.  "  I  would  like 
to  call  and  see  you." 

He  gave  me  the  address  reluctantly,  and  said 
he  would  esteem  it  a  great  pleasure  if  I  would 
honor  him  by  a  visit,  which  was  a  palpable  lie. 


THE  MAN    WHO    WENT    WRONG.  199 

The  following  afternoon  I  went.  I  found  the 
place  to  be  a  pawnbroker's  shop,  and  from  ap- 
pearances he  must  have  been  doing  a  very  brisk 
business.  He  was  out  himself  attending  a  tem- 
perence  committee,  but  his  old  father  was 
behind  the  counter,  and  asked  me  inside. 
Though  it  was  a  chilly  day  there  was  no  fire  in 
the  parlor,  and  the  two  old  folks  sat  one  on  each 
side  of  the  empty  hearth,  silent  and  sad.  They 
seemed  little  more  pleased  to  see  me  than  had 
been  their  son,  but  after  a  while  Mrs.  Burridge's 
natural  garrulity  asserted  itself,  and  we  fell  into 
chat. 

I  asked  what  had  become  of  his  sister-in-law, 
the  lady  with  the  swollen  face. 

"  I  couldn't  rightly  tell  you,  sir,"  answered 
the  old  lady;  "  she  ain't  livin'  with  us  now." 

"  You  see,  sir,"  she  continued,  "  John's  got 
different  notions  to  what  'e  used  to  'ave.  'E 
don't  co<tten  much  to  them  as  aint  found 
grace,  and  poor  Jane  never  did  'ave  much  re- 
ligion." 

"  And  the  little  one?  "  I  inquired.  "  The  one 
with  the  curls?  " 

"  What,  Bessie,  sir?  "  said  the  old  lady.  "  Oh, 


200  THE  MAN   WHO    WENT    WRONG. 

she's  out  at  service,  sir;  John  don't  think  it 
good  for  young  folks  to  be  idle." 

"  Your  son  seems  to  have  changed  a  good 
deal,  Mrs.  Burridge,"  I  remarked. 

"  Ay,  sir,"  she  assented,  "  you  may  well  say 
that.  It  nearly  broke  my  'art  at  fust;  every- 
thin'  so  different  to  what  it  'ad  been.  Not  as  I'd 
stand  in  the  boy's  light.  If  our  being  a  bit  un- 
comfortable-like  in  this  world  is  a-going  to  do 
'im  any  good  in  the  next,  me  and  father  aint  the 
ones  to  begrudge  it,  are  we,  old  man?  " 

The  "  old  man  "  concurred  grumpily. 

"  Was  it  a  sudden  conversion? "  I  asked. 
"  How  did  it  come  about?  " 

"  It  was  a  young  woman  as  started  'im  off," 
explained  the  old  lady.  "  She  come  round  to 
our  place  one  day  a-collectin'  for  somethin'  or 
other,  and  Jack,  in  'is  free-'anded  way,  'e  give 
'er  a  five-pun'  note.  Next  week  she  come 
agen  for  somethin'  else,  and  stopped  and  talked 
to  'im  about  'is  soul  in  the  passage.  She  told 
'im  as  'e  was  a-goin'  straight  to  'ell,  and  that  'e 
oughter  give  up  the  bookmakin'  and  settle 
down  to  a  respec'able,  God-fearin'  business.  At 
fust  'e  only  laughed,  but  she  'lammed  in  tracts 


THE   MAN    WHO    WENT    WRONG.  2OI 

at  'im  full  of  the  most  awful  language;  and  one 
day  she  fetched  'im  round  to  one  of  them  re- 
vivalist chaps,  as  fair  settled  'im. 

"  'E  aint  never  been  'is  old  self  since  then.  'E 
give  up  the  bettin'  and  bought  this  'ere,  though 
what's  the  difference,  blessed  if  I  can  see.  It 
makes  my  'art  ache,  it  do,  to  'ear  my  Jack 
a-beatin'  down  the  poor  people — and  it  aint  like 
'im.  It  went  agen  'is  grain  at  fust,  I  could  see; 
but  they  told  'im  as  'ow  it  was  folks's  own  fault 
that  they  was  poor,  and  as  'ow  it  was  the  will 
of  God,  because  they  was  a  drinkin',  improvi- 
dent lot. 

"  Then  they  made  'im  sign  the  pledge.  'E'd 
allus  been  used  to  'is  glass,  Jack  'ad,  and  I  think 
as  knockin'  it  off  'ave  soured  'im  a  bit — seems 
as  if  all  the  sperit  'ad  gone  out  of  'im — and  of 
course  me  and  father  'ave  'ad  to  give  up  our  lit- 
tle drop,  too.  Then  they  told  'im  as  'e  must 
give  up  smokin' — that  was  another  way  of  goin' 
straight  to  'ell — and  that  aint  made  'im  any  the 
more  cheerful-like,  and  father  misses  'is  little 
bit— don't  ye,  father?  " 

"  Ay,"  answered  the  old  fellow  savagely. 
"  Can't  say  I  thinks  much  of  these  'ere  folks  as 


202  THE  MAN   WHO    WENT   WRONG. 

is  going  to  heaven;  blowed  if  I  don't  think 
they'll  be  a  chirpier  lot  in  t'other  place." 

An  angry  discussion  in  the  shop  interrupted 
us.  Jack  had  returned,  and  was  threatening  an 
excited  woman  with  the  police.  It  seemed  she 
had  miscalculated  the  date,  and  had  come  a  day 
too  late  with  her  interest. 

Having  got  rid  of  her,  he  came  into  the  par- 
lor with  a  watch  in  his  hand. 

"  It's  providential  she  was  late,"  he  said,  look- 
ing at  it;  "  it's  worth  ten  times  what  I  lent  on 
it." 

He  packed  his  father  back  into  the  shop,  and 
his  mother  down  into  the  kitchen  to  get  his  tea, 
and  for  a  while  we  sat  together  talking. 

I  found  his  conversation — a  strange  mixture 
of  self-laudation,  showing  through  a  flimsy  veil 
of  self-disparagement,  and  of  satisfaction  at  the 
conviction  that  he  was  "  saved  "  combined  with 
equally  evident  satisfaction  that  most  other  peo- 
ple weren't — somewhat  trying,  however;  and  re- 
membering an  appointment,  rose  to  go. 

He  made  no  effort  to  stay  me,  but  I  could  see 
that  he  was  bursting  to  tell  me  something.  At 


THE  MAN    WHO    WENT    WRONG.  203 

last,  taking  a  religious  paper  from  his  pocket, 
and  pointing  to  a  column,  he  blurted  out: 

"  You  don't  take  any  interest  in  the  Lord's 
vineyard,  I  suppose,  sir?  " 

I  glanced  at  the  part  of  the  paper  indicated. 
It  announced  a  new  mission  to  the  Chinese,  and 
heading  the  subscription  list  stood  the  name, 
"  Mr.  John  Burridge,  one  hundred  guineas." 

"You  subscribe  largely,  Mr.  Burridge,"  I  said, 
handing  him  back  the  paper. 

He  rubbed  his  big  hands  together.  "  The 
Lord  will  repay  a  hundredfold,"  he  answered. 

"  In  which  case  it's  just  as  well  to  have  a  note 
of  the  advance  down  in  black  and  white,  eh?  " 
I  added. 

His  little  eyes  looked  sharply  at  me;  but  he 
made  no  reply,  and,  shaking  hands,  I  left  him. 


THE    MAN   WHO   DID  NOT 
BELIEVE   IN  LUCK. 

|E  got  in  at  Ipswich,  with  seven  differ- 
ent weekly  papers  under  his  arm.  I 
noticed  that  each  one  insured  its 
reader  against  death  or  injury  by 
railway  accident.  He  arranged  his  luggage 
upon  the  rack  above  him,  took  off  his  hat  and 
laid  it  on  the  seat  beside  him,  mopped  his  bald 
head  with  a  red  silk  handkerchief,  and  then  set 
to  work  steadily  to  write  his  name  and  address 
upon  each  of  the  seven  papers.  I  sat  opposite 
to  him  and  read  Punch.  I  always  take  the  old 
humor  when  traveling;  I  find  it  soothing  to 
the  nerves. 

Passing  over  the  points  at  Manningtree  the 
train  gave  a  lurch,  and  a  horseshoe  he  had  care- 
fully placed  in  the  rack  above  him  slipped 
through  the  netting  and  fell  with  a  musical  ring 
upon  his  head. 

He   appeared   neither   surprised   nor   angry. 


DID  NOT  BELIEVE  IN  LUCK.  205 

Having  stanched  the  wound  with  his  hand- 
kerchief he  stooped  and  picked  the  horseshoe 
up,  glanced  at  it  with,  as  I  thought,  an  expres- 
sion of  reproach,  and  dropped  it  gently  out  of 
the  window. 

"  Did  it  hurt  you?  "  I  asked. 

It  was  a  foolish  question.  I  told  myself  so 
the  moment  I  had  uttered  it.  The  thing  must 
have  weighed  three  pounds  at  the  least;  it  was 
an  exceptionally  large  and  heavy  shoe.  The 
bump  on  his  head  was  swelling  visibly  before 
my  eyes.  Anyone  but  an  idiot  must  have  seen 
that  he  was  hurt.  I  expected  an  irritable  reply. 
I  should  have  given  one  myself  had  I  been  in 
his  place.  Instead,  however,  he  seemed  to  re- 
gard the  inquiry  as  a  natural  and  kindly  expres- 
sion of  sympathy. 

"  It  did,  a  little,"  he  replied. 

"What  were  you  doing  with  it?"  I  asked. 
It  was  an  odd  sort  of  thing  for  a  man  to  be 
traveling  with. 

"It  was  lying  in  the  roadway  just  outside 
the  station,"  he  explained;  "  I  picked  it  up  for 
luck." 

He  refolded  his  handkerchief  so  as  to  bring 


206  DID   NOT  BELIEVE  IN  LUCK. 

a  cooler  surface  in  contact  with  the  swelling, 
while  I  murmured  something  genial  about  the 
inscrutability  of  Providence. 

"  Yes,"  he  said;  "  I've  had  a  deal  of  luck  in 
my  time,  but  it's  never  turned  out  well." 

"  I  was  born  on  a  Wednesday,"  he  continued, 
"  which,  as  I  dare  say  you  know,  is  the  luckiest 
day  a  man  can  be  born  on.  My  mother  was  a 
widow,  and  none  of  my  relatives  would  do  any- 
thing for  me.  They  said  it  would  be  like  taking 
coals  to  Newcastle,  helping  a  boy  born  on  a 
Wednesday;  and  my  uncle,  when  he  died,  left 
every  penny  of  his  money  to  my  brother  Sam, 
as  a  slight  compensation  to  him  for  having  been 
born  on  a  Friday.  All  I  ever  got  was  advice 
upon  the  duties  and  responsibilities  of  wealth, 
when  it  arrived,  and  entreaties  that  I  would  not 
neglect  those  with  claims  upon  me  when  I  came 
to  be  a  rich  man." 

He  paused  while  folding  up  his  various  in- 
surance papers  and  placing  them  in  the  inside 
breast  pocket  of  his  coat. 

"Then  there  are  black  cats,"  he  went  on; 
"  they're  said  to  be  lucky.  Why,  there  never 
was  a  blacker  cat  than  the  one  that  followed  me 


DID  NOT  BELIEVE  IN  LUCK.  207 

into  my  rooms  in  Bolsover  Street,  the  very  first 
night  I  took  them." 

"  Didn't  it  bring  you  luck?  "  I  inquired,  find- 
ing that  he  had  stopped. 

A  far-away  look  came  into  his  eyes. 

"  Well,  of  course,  it  all  depends,"  he  answered 
dreamily.  "  Maybe  we'd  never  have  suited  one 
another;  you  can  always  look  at  it  that  way. 
Still,  I'd  like  to  have  tried." 

He  sat  staring  out  of  the  window,  and  for 
a  while  I  did  not  care  to  intrude  upon  his  evi- 
dently painful  memories. 

"  What  happened  then?  "  I  asked,  however, 
at  last. 

He  roused  himself  from  his  reverie. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  "  nothing  extraordinary.  She 
had  to  leave  London  for  a  time,  and  gave  me 
her  pet  canary  to  take  charge  of  while  she  was 
away." 

"  But  it  wasn't  your  fault,"  I  urged. 

"  No,  perhaps  not,"  he  agreed;  "  but  it  cre- 
ated a  coldness  which  others  were  not  slow  to 
take  advantage  of." 

"  I  offered  her  the  cat,  too,"  he  added,  but 
more  to  himself  than  to  me. 


208 


DID  NOT  BELIEVE  IN  LUCK. 


We  sat  and  smoked  in  silence.    I  felt  that  the 
consolations  of  a  stranger  would  sound  weak. 


'It  created  a  coldness." 


"  Piebald  horses  are  lucky,  too,"  he  observed, 
knocking  the  ashes  from  his  pipe  against  the 
window  sash.  "  I  had  one  of  them  once." 


DID  NOT  BELIEVE  IN  LUCK.  209 

"  What  did  it  do  to  you?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Lost  me  the  best  crib  I  ever  had  in  my 
life,"  was  the  simple  rejoinder.  "  The  governor 
stood  it  a  good  deal  longer  than  I  had  any  right 
to  expect;  but  you  can't  keep  a  man  who  is 
always  drunk.  It  gives  a  firm  a  bad  name." 

"  It  would,"  I  agreed. 

"  You  see,"  he  went  on,  "  I  never  had  the 
head  for  it.  To  some  men  it  would  not  have 
so  much  mattered;  but  the  very  first  glass 
was  enough  to  upset  me;  I'd  never  been  used 
to  it." 

"  But  why  did  you  take  it? "  I  persisted. 
"  The  horse  didn't  make  you  drink  it,  did  he?  " 

"  Well,  it  was  this  way,"  he  explained,  con- 
tinuing to  rub  gently  the  lump,  which  was  now 
about  the  size  of  an  egg;  "  the  animal  had  be- 
longed to  a  gentleman  who  traveled  in  the  wine 
and  spirit  line,  and  who  had  been  accustomed 
to  visit  in  the  way  of  business  almost  every  pub- 
lic house  he  came  to.  The  result  was  you 
couldn't  get  that  little  horse  past  a  public  house 
— at  least,  /  couldn't.  He  sighted  them  a  quar- 
ter of  a  mile  off,  and  made  straight  for  the  door. 
I  struggled  with  him  at  first,  but  it  was  five  to 


210  DID  NOT  BELIEVE  IN  LUCK. 

ten  minutes'  work  getting  him  away,  and  folks 
used  to  gather  round  and  bet  on  us.  I  think 
maybe  I'd  have  stuck  to  it,  however,  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  a  temperance  chap  who  stopped  one 
day  and  lectured  the  crowd  about  it  from  the 
opposite  side  of  the  street.  He  called  me  Pil- 
grim, and  said  the  little  horse  was  '  Pollion,'  or 
some  such  name,  and  kept  on  shouting  out  that 
I  was  to  fight  him  for  a  heavenly  crown.  After 
that  they  called  us  '  Polly  and  the  Pilgrim  fight- 
ing for  the  crown.'  It  riled  me,  that  did,  and 
at  the  very  next  house  at  which  he  pulled  up 
I  got  down  and  said  I'd  come  for  two  of  Scotch. 
That  was  the  beginning.  It  took  me  years  to 
break  myself  of  the  habit." 

"  But,  there,"  he  continued,  "  it  has  always 
been  the  same.  I  hadn't  been  a  fortnight  in  my 
first  situation  before  my  employer  gave  me  a 
goose  weighing  eighteen  pounds  as  a  Christmas 
present." 

"  Well,  that  couldn't  have  done  you  any 
harm,"  I  remarked.  "  That  was  lucky  enough." 

"  So  the  other  clerks  said  at  the  time,"  he 
replied;  "the  old  gentleman  had  never  been 
known  to  give  anything  away  before  in  his  life. 


DID  NOT  BELIEVE  IN  LUCK.  211 

'  He's  taken  a  fancy  to  you,'  they  said;  '  you  are 
a  lucky  beggar! ' 

He  sighed  heavily.  I  felt  there  was  a  story 
attached. 

"  What  did  you  do  with  it?  "  I  asked. 

"  That  was  the  trouble,"  he  returned;  "  I  did 
not  know  what  to  do  with  it.  It  was  ten 
o'clock  on  Christmas  Eve,  just  as  I  was  leaving, 
that  he  gave  it  to  me.  '  Tiddling  Brothers 
have  sent  me  a  goose,  Biggies,'  he  said  to  me  as 
I  helped  him  on  with  his  great  coat.  '  Very 
kind  of  'em,  but  I  don't  want  it  myself;  you  can 
have  it!  " 

"  Of  course  I  thanked  him,  and  was  very 
grateful.  He  wished  me  a  merry  Christmas  and 
went  out.  I  tied  the  thing  up  in  brown  paper, 
and  took  it  under  my  arm.  It  was  a  fine  bird, 
but  heavy. 

"  Under  all  the  circumstances,  and  it  being 
Christmas  time,  I  thought  I  would  treat  myself 
to  a  glass  of  beer.  I  went  into  a  quiet  little 
house  at  the  corner  of  the  Lane  and  laid  the 
goose  on  the  counter. 

"  '  That's  a  big  'un,'  said  the  landlord;  '  you'll 
get  a  good  cut  off  him  to-morrow.' 


212  DID  NOT  BELIEVE   IN  LUCK. 

"  His  words  set  me  thinking,  and  for  the  first 
time  it  struck  me  that  I  didn't  want  the  bird — 
that  it  was  of  no  use  to  me  at  all.  I  was  going 
down  to  spend  the  holidays  with  my  young 
lady's  people  in  Kent." 

"  Was  this  the  canary  young  lady? "  1 
interrupted. 

"  No,"  he  replied;  "  this  was  before  that  one. 
It  was  this  goose  I'm  telling  you  of  that  upset 
this  one.  Well,  her  folks  were  big  farmers;  it 
would  have  been  absurd  taking  a  goose  down  to 
them,  and  I  knew  no  one  in  London  to  give  it 
to,  so  when  the  landlord  came  round  again  I 
asked  him  if  he  would  care  to  buy  it.  I  told 
him  he  could  have  it  cheap. 

"  '  I  don't  want  it  myself,'  he  answered;  '  I've 
got  three  in  the  house  already.  Perhaps  one 
of  these  gentlemen  would  like  to  make  an  offer.' 

"  He  turned  to  a  couple  of  chaps  who  were 
sitting  drinking  gin.  They  didn't  look  to  me 
worth  the  price  of  a  chicken  between  them. 
The  seediest  said  he'd  like  to  look  at  it,  how- 
ever; and  I  undid  the  parcel.  He  mauled  the 
thing  pretty  considerably,  and  cross-examined 
me  as  to  how  I  came  by  it,  ending  by  upsetting 


DID  NOT  BELIEVE  IN  LUCK.  213 

half  a  tumbler  of  gin  and  water  over  it.  Then 
lie  offered  me  half  a  crown  for  it.  It  made  me 
so  angry  that  I  took  the  brown  paper  and  the 
string  in  one  hand  and  the  goose  in  the  other, 
and  walked  straight  out  without  saying  a  word. 

"  I  carried  it  this  way  for  some  distance,  be- 
cause I  was  excited,  and  didn't  care  how  I  car- 
ried it;  but  as  I  cooled  I  began  to  reflect  how 
ridiculous  I  must  look.  One  or  two  small  boys 
evidently  noticed  the  same  thing.  I  stopped 
under  a  lamp  post  and  tried  to  tie  it  up  again. 
I  had  a  bag  and  an  umbrella  with  me  at  the 
same  time,  and  the  first  thing  I  did  was  to  drop 
the  goose  into  the  gutter,  which  is  just  what  I 
might  have  expected  to  do,  attempting  to 
handle  four  separate  articles  and  three  yards  of 
string  with  one  pair  of  hands.  I  picked  up 
about  a  quart  of  mud  with  that  goose,  and  got 
the  greater  part  of  it  over  my  hands  and  clothes 
and  a  fair  quantity  over  the  brown  paper;  and 
then  it  began  to  rain. 

"  I  bundled  everything  up  into  my  arm  and 
made  for  the  nearest  pub,  where  I  thought  I 
would  ask  for  a  piece  more  string,  and  make  a 
neat  job  of  it. 


214 


DID  NOT  BELIEVE  IN  LUCK. 


"  The  bar  was  crowded.  I  pushed  my  way  to 
the  counter  and  flung  the  goose  down  in  front 
of  me.  The  men  nearest  stopped  talking  to 


"I  tried  to  tie  it  up  again." 

look  at  it;  and  a  young  fellow  standing  next 
me  said: 

" '  Well,  you've  killed  it.'  I  dare  say  I  did 
seem  a  bit  excited. 

"  I  had  intended  making  another    effort    to 


DID  NOT  BELIEVE  IN  LUCK.  215 

sell  it  here,  but  they  were  clearly  not  the  right 
sort.  I  had  a  pint  of  ale — for  I  was  feeling 
somewhat  tired  and  hot — scraped  as  much  of 
the  mud  off  the  bird  as  I  could,  made  a  fresh 
parcel  of  it,  and  came  out. 

"  Crossing  the  road  a  happy  idea  occurred  to 
me.  I  thought  I  would  raffle  it.  At  once  I  set 
to  work  to  find  a  house  where  there  might  seem 
to  be  a  likely  lot.  It  cost  me  three  or  four  whis- 
kies— for  I  felt  I  didn't  want  any  more  beer, 
which  is  a  thing  which  easily  upsets  me — but 
at  length  I  found  just  the  crowd  I  wanted — a 
quiet,  domestic-looking  set,  in  a  homely  little 
place  off  the  Goswell  Road. 

"  I  explained  my  views  to  the  landlord.  He 
said  he  had  no  objection;  he  supposed  I  would 
stand  drinks  round  afterward.  I  said  I  should 
be  delighted  to  do  so,  and  showed  him  the  bird. 

"  '  It  looks  a  bit  poorly,'  he  said.  He  was  a 
Devonshire  man. 

"  '  Oh,  that's  nothing,'  I  explained.  '  I  hap- 
pened to  drop  it.  That  will  all  wash  off.' 

"  '  It  smells  a  bit  queer,  too,'  he  said. 

"  '  That's  mud/  I  answered;  '  you  know  what 
London  mud  is.  And  a  gentleman  spilled  some 


216  DID  NOT  BELIEVE   IN  LUCK. 

gin  over  it.  Nobody  will  notice  that  when  it's 
cooked.' 

"  '  Well/  he  replied,  '  I  don't  think  I'll  take  a 
hand  myself;  but  if  any  other  gent  likes  to, 
that's  his  affair.' 

"  Nobody  seemed  enthusiastic.  I  started  it 
at  sixpence,  and  took  a  ticket  myself.  The  pot- 
man had  a  free  chance  for  superintending  the 
arrangements,  and  he  succeeded  in  inducing 
five  other  men,  much  against  their  will,  to  join 
us.  I  won  it  myself,  and  paid  out  three  and 
twopence  for  drinks.  A  solemn-looking  indi- 
vidual who  had  been  snoring  in  a  corner  sud- 
denly woke  up  as  I  was  going  out,  and  offered 
me  sevenpence  ha'penny  for  it — why  sevenpence 
ha'penny  I  have  never  been  quite  able  to  under- 
stand. He  would  have  taken  it  away,  I  should 
have  never  seen  it  again,  and  my  whole  life 
might  have  been  different.  But  Fate  has  always 
been  against  me.  I  replied,  with  perhaps  un- 
necessary hauteur,  that  I  wasn't  a  Christ- 
mas dinner  fund  for  the  destitute,  and  walked 
out. 

"  It  was  getting  late,  and  I  had  a  long  walk 
home  to  my  lodgings.  I  was  beginning  to  wish 


DID  NOT  BELIEVE   IN  LUCK.  217 

I  had  never  seen  the  bird.  I  estimated  its 
weight  by  this  time  to  be  thirty-six  pounds. 

"  The  idea  occurred  to  me  to  sell  it  to  a 
poulterer.  I  looked  for  a  shop;  I  found  one  in 
Myddleton  Street.  There  wasn't  a  customer 
near  it;  but  by  the  way  the  man  was  shouting 
you  might  have  thought  that  he  was  doing  all 
the  trade  of  Clerkenwell.  I  took  the  goose  out 
of  the  parcel  and  laid  it  on  the  shelf  before  him. 

"  '  What's  this?  '  he  asked. 

"'It's  a  goose,'  I  said;  'you  can  have  it 
cheap.' 

"  He  just  seized  the  thing  by  the  neck  and 
flung  it  at  me.  I  dodged,  and  it  caught  the  side 
of  my  head.  You  can  have  no  idea,  if  you've 
never  been  hit  on  the  head  with  a  goose,  how  it 
hurts.  I  picked  it  up,  and  hit  him  back  with 
it;  and  a  policeman  came  up  with  the  usual, 
'  Now,  then,  what's  all  this  about? ' 

"  I  explained  the  facts.  The  poulterer 
stepped  to  the  edge  of  the  curb  and  apostro- 
phized the  universe  generally. 

"  '  Look  at  that  shop,'  he  said;  '  it's  twenty 
minutes  to  twelve,  and  there's  seven  dozen 
geese  hanging  there  that  I'm  willing  to  give 


2l8 


DID  NOT  BELIEVE  IN  LUCK, 


away,  and  this  fool  asks  me  if  I  want  to  buy 
another! ' 

"  I  perceived  then  that  my  notion  had  been 


"It  caught  the  side  of  my  head." 

a  foolish  one,  and  I  followed  the  policeman's 
advice,  and  went  away  quietly,  taking  the  bird 
with  me. 

"  Then  I  said  to  myself,  '  I  will  give  it  away. 


DID  NOT  BELIEVE  IN  LUCK.  219 

I  will  select  some  poor,  deserving  person,  and 

make  him  a  present  of  the  d d  thing.'     I 

passed  a  good  many  people,  but  no  one  who 
looked  deserving  enough.  It  may  have  been  the 
time,  or  it  may  have  been  the  neighborhood, 
but  those  I  met  seemed  to  me  to  be  unworthy 
of  the  bird.  I  offered  it  to  a  man  in  Judd  Street, 
who  I  thought  appeared  hungry.  He  turned 
out  to  be  a  drunken  ruffian.  I  could  not  make 
him  understand  what  I  meant,  and  he  followed 
me  down  the  road  abusing  me  at  the  top  of  his 
voice,  until,  turning  a  corner  without  knowing 
it,  he  plunged  down  Tavistock  Place,  shouting 
after  the  wrong  man.  In  the  Euston  Road  I 
stopped  a  half-starved  child  and  pressed  it  upon 
her.  She  answered  '  Not  me!'  and  ran  away. 
I  heard  her  calling  shrilly  after  me,  '  Who  stole 
the  goose?  ' 

"  I  dropped  it  in  a  dark  part  of  Seymour 
Street.  A  man  picked  it  up  and  brought  it 
after  me.  I  was  unequal  to  any  more  explana- 
tions or  arguments.  I  gave  him  twopence,  and 
plodded  on  with  it  once  more.  The  pubs  were 
just  closing,  and  I  went  into  one  for  a  final 
drink.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  had  had  enough 


220  DID  NOT  BELIEVE  IN  LUCK. 

already,  being,  as  I  am,  unaccustomed  to  any- 
thing more  than  an  occasional  glass  of  beer. 
But  I  felt  depressed,  and  I  thought  it  might 
cheer  me.  I  think  I  had  gin,  which  is  a  thing 
I  loathe. 

"  I  meant  to  fling  it  over  into  Oakley  Square, 
but  a  policeman  had  his  eye  on  me,  and  followed 
me  twice  round  the  railings.  In  Golding  Road 
I  sought  to  throw  it  down  an  area,  but  was 
frustrated  in  like  manner.  The  whole  night 
police  of  London  seemed  to  have  nothing  else 
to  do  but  prevent  my  getting  rid  of  that  goose. 

"  They  appeared  so  anxious  about  it  that  I 
fancied  they  might  like  to  have  it.  I  went  up  to 
one  in  Camden  Street.  I  called  him  '  Bobby,' 
and  asked  him  if  he  wanted  a  goose. 

"  '  I'll  tell  you  what  I  don't  want/  he  replied 
severely,  '  and  that  is  none  of  your  sauce.' 

"  He  was  very  insulting,  and  I  naturally  an- 
swered him  back.  What  actually  passed  I  for- 
get, but  it  ended  in  his  announcing  his  intention 
of  taking  me  in  charge. 

"  I  slipped  out  of  his  hand,  and  bolted  down 
King  Street.  He  blew  his  whistle  and  started 
after  me.  A  man  sprang  out  from  a  doorway  in 


DID  NOT  BELIEVE  IN  LUCK.  221 

College  Street  and  tried  to  stop  me.  I  tied  him 
up  with  a  butt  in  the  stomach,  and  cut  through 
the  Crescent,  doubling  back  into  the  Camden 
Road  by  Batt  Street. 

"  At  the  canal  bridge  I  looked  behind  me,  and 
could  see  no  one.  I  dropped  the  goose  over  the 
parapet,  and  it  fell  with  a  splash  into  the  water. 

"  Heaving  a  sigh  of  relief,  I  turned  and 
crossed  into  Randolph  Street,  and  there  a  con- 
stable collared  me.  I  was  arguing  with  him 
when  the  first  fool  came  up  breathless.  They 
told  me  I  had  better  explain  the  matter  to  the 
Inspector,  and  I  thought  so  too. 

"  The  Inspector  asked  me  why  I  had  run 
away  when  the  constable  wanted  to  take  me  in 
charge.  I  replied  that  it  was  because  I  did  not 
desire  to  spend  my  Christmas  holidays  in  the 
lock-up,  which  he  evidently  regarded  as  a  singu- 
larly weak  argument.  He  asked  me  what  I  had 
thrown  into  the  canal.  I  told  him  a  goose.  He 
asked  me  why  I  had  thrown  a  goose  into  the 
canal.  I  told  him  because  I  was  sick  and  tired 
of  the  animal. 

"  At  this  stage  a  sergeant  came  in  to  say  that 
they  had  succeeded  in  recovering  the  parcel. 


222 


DID   NOT  BELIEVE  IN  LUCK. 


They  opened  it  on  the  Inspector's  table.     It 
contained  a  dead  baby. 

"  I  pointed  out  to  them  that  it  wasn't  my 


"They  told  me  I  had  better  explain  the  matter  to  the  Inspector." 

parcel,  and  that  it  wasn't  my  baby;  but  they 
hardly  took  the  trouble  to  disguise  the  fact  that 
they  did  not  believe  me. 


DID  NOT  BELIEVE  IN  LUCK.  223 

"  The  Inspector  said  it  was  too  grave  a  case 
for  bail,  which,  seeing  that  I  did  not  know  a 
soul  in  London,  was  somewhat  immaterial.  I 
got  them  to  send  a  telegram  to  my  young  lady 
to  say  that  I  was  unavoidably  detained  in  town, 
and  passed  as  quiet  and  uneventful  a  Christmas 
Day  and  Boxing  Day  as  I  ever  wish  to  spend. 

"  In  the  end  the  evidence  against  me  was  held 
to  be  insufficient  to  justify  a  conviction,  and  .1 
got  off  on  the  minor  charge  of  drunk  and  dis- 
orderly. But  I  lost  my  situation,  and  I  lost  my 
young  lady,  and  I  don't  care  if  I  never  see  a 
goose  again." 

We  were  nearing  Liverpool  Street.  He  col- 
lected his  luggage,  and,  taking  up  his  hat,  made 
an  attempt  to  put  it  on  his  head.  But  in  conse- 
quence of  the  swelling  caused  by  the  horseshoe 
it  would  not  go  anywhere  near  him;  and  he  laid 
it  sadly  back  upon  the  seat. 

"  No,"  he  said  quietly;  "  I  can't  say  that  I 
believe  very  much  in  luck." 


WHIBLEY'S   SPIRIT. 

NEVER  met  it  myself,  but  I  knew 
Whibley  very  well  indeed,  so  that  I 
came  to  hear  a  goodish  deal  about  it. 
It  appeared  to  be  devoted  to 
Whibley,  and  Whibley  was  extremely  fond 
of  it.  Personally,  I  am  not  interested  in 
spirits,  and  no  spirit  has  ever  interested 
itself  in  me.  But  I  have  friends  whom 
they  patronize,  and  my  mind  is  quite  open 
on  the  subject.  Of  Whibley's  Spirit,  therefore, 
I  wish  to  speak  with  every  possible  respect.  It 
was,  I  am  willing  to  admit,  as  hard-working  and 
conscientious  a  spirit  as  anyone  could  wish  to 
live  with.  The  only  thing  I  have  to  say  against 
it  is  that  it  had  no  sense. 

It  came  with  a  carved  cabinet  that  Whibley 
had  purchased  in  Wardour  Street  for  old-oak — 
but  which,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  was  chestnut 
wood,  manufactured  in  Germany — and  at  first 
was  harmless  enough,  saying  nothing  but 


WHIBLEY'S  SPIRIT.  22$ 

"  Yes!  "  or  "  No!  "  and  that  only  when  spoken 
to. 

Whibley  would  amuse  himself  of  an  evening, 
asking  it  questions,  being  'careful  to  choose  tol- 
erably simple  themes,  such  as,  "  Are  you 
there? "  (to  which  the  Spirit  would  some- 
times answer  "  Yes!  "  and  sometimes  "  No!  ") 
"  Can  you  hear  me? "  "  Are  you  happy? " 
and  so  on.  The  Spirit  made  the  cabinet 
crack  three  times  for  "  Yes,"  and  twice 
for  "  No."  Now  and  then  it  would  reply 
both  "  Yes!  "  and  "  No!  "  to  the  same  question, 
which  Whibley  attributed  to  over-scrupulous- 
ness. When  nobody  asked  it  anything,  it  would 
talk  to  itself,  repeating  "Yes!  No!"  "No! 
Yes!  "  over  and  over  again  in  an  aimless,  lone- 
some sort  of  way  that  made  you  feel  sorry  for  it. 

After  a  while  Whibley  bought  it  a  table,  and  en- 
couraged it  to  launch  out  into  more  active  con- 
versation. To  please  Whibley,  I  assisted  at  some 
of  the  earlier  seances,  but  during  my  presence 
it  invariably  maintained  a  reticence  bordering 
on  positive  dullness.  I  gathered  from  Whibley 
that  it  disliked  me,  saying  that  I  was  unsym- 
pathetic. The  complaint  was  unjust ;  I  was  not 


226  WHIB LEY'S  SPIRIT. 

unsympathetic — at  least  not  at  the  commence- 
ment. I  came  to  hear  it  talk,  and  I  wanted  to 
hear  it  talk;  I  would  have  listened  to  it  by  the 
hour.  What  tired  me  was  its  slowness  in  start- 
ing, and  its  foolishness,  when  it  had  started,  in 
using  long  words  that  it  did  not  know  how 
to  spell.  I  remember  on  one  occasion,  Whibley, 
Jobstock  (Whibley's  partner),  and  myself,  sit- 
ting for  two  hours,  trying  to  understand  what 
the  thing  meant  by  "  H-e-s-t-u-r-n-e-m-y-s- 
f-e-a-r."  It  used  no  stops  whatever.  It  never 
so  much  as  hinted  where  one  sentence  ended  and 
another  began.  It  never  even  told  us  when  it 
came  to  a  proper  name.  Its  idea  of  an  evening's 
conversation  was  to  plump  down  a  hundred  or 
so  vowels  and  consonants  in  front  of  you,  and 
leave  you  to  make  whatever  sense  out  of  them 
you  could. 

We  fancied  at  first  it  was  talking  about  some- 
body named  Hester  (it  had  spelled  Hester  with 
a  "  u  "  before:  we  allowed  a  margin  for  spelling), 
and  we  tried  to  work  the  sentence  out  on  that 
basis;  "  Hester  enemys  fear,"  we  thought  it 
might  be.  Whibley  had  a  niece  named  Hester, 
and  we  decided  the  warning  had  reference  to 


WHIBLEY' S  SPIRIT.  227 

her.  But  whether  she  was  our  enemy,  and  we 
were  to  fear  her;  or  whether  we  were  to  fear  her 
enemies  (and,  if  so,  who  were  they?);  or  whether 
it  was  our  enemies  who  were  to  be  frightened 
by  Hester,  or  her  enemies;  or  enemies  generally, 
still  remained  doubtful.  We  asked  the  table  if 
it  meant  the  first  suggestion,  and  it  said  "  No." 
We  asked  it  what  it  did  mean,  and  it  said 
"  Yes." 

This  answer  annoyed  me,  but  Whibley  ex- 
plained that  the  Spirit  was  angry  with  us  for  our 
stupidity  (which  seemed  quaint).  He  informed 
us  that  it  always  said  first  "  No,"  and  then 
"  Yes,"  when  it  was  angry,  and  as  it  was  his 
Spirit,  and  we  were  in  his  house,  we  kept  our 
feelings  to  ourselves  and  started  afresh. 

This  time  we  abandoned  the  "  Hestur " 
theory  altogether.  Jobstock  suggested 
"  Haste  "  for  the  first  word,  and  thought  the 
Spirit  might  have  gone  on  phonetically. 

"  Haste!  you  are  here,  Miss  Sfear!  "  was  what 
he  made  of  it. 

Whibley  asked  him  sarcastically  if  he'd  kindly 
explain  what  that  meant. 

I  think  Jobstock  was  getting  irritable.     We 


228  WHIB LEY'S  SPIRIT. 

had  been  sitting  cramped  up  around  a 
wretched  little  one-legged  table  all  the  even- 
ing, and  this  was  almost  the  first  bit  of  gossip 
we  had  got  out  of  it.  To  further  excuse  him, 
it  should  also  be  explained  that  the  gas  had 
been  put  out  by  Whibley,  and  that  the  fire  had 
gone  out  of  its  own  accord.  He  replied  that  it 
was  hard  labor  enough  to  find  out  what  the 
thing  said  without  having  to  make  sense  of  it. 

"  It  can't  spell,"  he  added,  "  and  it's  got  a 
nasty,  sulky  temper.  If  it  was  my  spirit  I'd 
hire  another  spirit  to  kick  it." 

Whibley  was  one  of  the  mildest  little  men  I 
ever  knew,  but  chaff  or  abuse  of  his  Spirit 
roused  the  devil  in  him,  and  I  feared  we  were 
going  to  have  a  scene.  Fortunately,  I  was  able 
to  get  his  mind  back  to  the  consideration  of 
"  Hesturnemysfear "  before  anything  worse 
happened  than  a  few  muttered  remarks  about 
the  laughter  of  fools,  and  want  of  reverence  for 
sacred  subjects  being  the  sign  of  a  shallow  mind. 

We  tried  "  He's  stern,"  and  "  His  turn,"  and 
the  "  fear  of  Hesturnemy  ";  and  tried  to  think 
who  "  Hesturnemy  "  might  be.  Three  times 
we  went  over  the  whole  thing  again  from  the 


WHIBLEY  >S  SPIRIT.  22$ 

beginning,  which  meant  six  hundred  and  six 
tiltings  of  the  table;  and  then  suddenly  the  ex- 
planation struck  me — "  Eastern  Hemisphere." 

Whibley  had  asked  it  for  any  information  it 
might  possess  concerning  his  wife's  uncle,  from 
whom  he  had  not  heard  for  months;  and  that, 
apparently,  was  its  idea  of  an  address. 

The  fame  of  Whibley's  Spirit  became  noised 
abroad,  with  the  result  that  Whibley  was  able 
to  command  the  willing  service  of  more  con- 
genial assistants,  and  Jobstock  and  myself  were 
dismissed.  But  we  bore  no  malice. 

Under  these  more  favorable  conditions  the 
Spirit  plucked  up  wonderfully,  and  talked  every- 
body's head  off.  It  could  never  have  been  a 
cheerful  companion,  however,  for  its  conversa- 
tion was  chiefly  confined  to  warnings  and  prog- 
nostications of  evil.  About  once  a  fortnight 
Whibley  would  drop  round  on  me,  in  a  friendly 
way,  to  tell  me  that  I  was  to  beware  of  a  man 
who  lived  in  a  street  beginning  with  a  "  C,"  or 
to  inform  me  that  if  I  would  go  to  a  town  on 
the  coast  where  there  were  three  churches  I 
should  meet  someone  who  would  do  me  an  irrep- 
arable injury;  and  that  I  did  not  rush  off  then 


230  WHIB 'LEY'S  SPIRIT". 

and  there  in  search  of  that  town  he  regarded  as 
flying  in  the  face  of  Providence. 

In  its  passion  for  poking  its  ghostly  nose  into 
other  people's  affairs,  it  reminded  me  of  my 
earthly  friend  Poppleton.  Nothing  pleased  it 
better  than  being  appealed  to  for  aid  and  advice, 
and  Whibley,  who  was  a  perfect  slave  to  it. 
would  hunt  half  over  the  parish  for  people  in 
trouble  and  bring  them  to  it. 

It  would  direct  ladies,  eager  for  divorce-court 
evidence,  to  go  to  the  third  house  from  the  cor- 
ner of  the  fifth  street,  past  such  and  such  a 
church  or  public  house  (it  never  could  give  a 
plain,  straightfonvard  address),  and  ring  the 
bottom  bell  but  one  twice.  They  would  thank 
it  effusively,  and  next  morning  would  start  to 
find  the  fifth  street  past  the  church,  and  would 
ring  the  bottom  bell  but  one  of  the  third  house 
from  the  corner  twice,  and  a  man  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves would  come  to  the  door  and  ask  them 
what  they  wanted. 

They  could  not  tell  what  they  wanted;  they 
did  not  know  themselves,  and  the  man  would 
use  bad  language,  and  slam  the  door  in  their 
faces. 


W HI B  LEY'S  SPIRIT. 


Then  they  would  think  that  perhaps  the 
Spirit  meant  the  fifth  street  the  other  way,  or 
the  third  house  from  the  opposite  corner,  and 


Mooning  along  Princes  Street. 

would  try  again,  with  still  more  unpleasant 
results. 

One  July  I  met  Whibley  mooning  disconso- 
lately along  Princes  Street,  Edinburgh. 

"  Hullo!  "  I  exclaimed,  "  what  are  you  doing 
here?  I  thought  you  were  busy  over  that 
School  Board  case?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered;  "  I  ought  really  to  be  in 


232  WHIBLEY'S  SPIRIT. 

London,  but  the  truth  is  I'm  rather  expecting 
something  to  happen  down  here." 

M  Oh!  "  I  said,  "  and  what's  that?  " 

"  Well,"  he  replied  hesitatingly,  as  though 
he  would  rather  not  talk  about  it,  "  I  don't  ex- 
actly know  yet." 

"  You've  come  from  London  to  Edinburgh, 
and  don't  know  what  you've  come  for!  "  1  cried. 

"  Well,  you  see,"  he  said,  still  more  reluc- 
tantly, as  it  seemed  to  me,  "  it  was  Maria's  idea. 
She  wished " 

"Maria!"  I  interrupted,  looking  perhaps  a 
little  sternly  at  him,  "  who's  Maria? "  (His 
wife's  name  I  knew  was  Emily  Georgina 
Anne.) 

"Oh!  I  forgot,"  he  explained;  "she  never 
would  tell  her  name  before  you,  would  she? 
It's  the  Spirit,  you  know." 

"Oh!  that,"  I  said;  "it's  she  that  has  sent 
you  here.  Didn't  she  tell  you  what  for?  " 

"No,"  he  answered;  "that's  what  worries 
me.  All  she  would  say  was:  '  Go  to  Edinburgh 
— something  will  happen.' ' 

"  And  how  long  are  you  going  to  remain 
here?  "  I  inquired. 


WH IB  LEY'S  SPIRIT.  233 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  replied.  "  I've  been 
here  a  week  already,  and  Jobstock  writes  quite 
angrily.  I  wouldn't  have  come  if  Maria  hadn't 
been  so  urgent.  She  repeated  it  three  evenings 
running." 

I  hardly  knew  what  to  do.  The  man  was  so 
dreadfully  in  earnest  about  the  business  that  one 
could  not  argue  much  with  him. 

'  You  are  sure,"  I  said,  after  thinking  a  while, 
"  that  this  Maria  is  a  good  spirit?  There  are  all 
sorts  going  about,  I'm  told.  You're  sure  this 
isn't  the  spirit  of  some  deceased  lunatic  playing 
the  fool  with  you?  " 

"  I've  thought  of  that,"  he  admitted.  "  Of 
course  that  might  be  so.  If  nothing  happens 
soon  I  shall  almost  begin  to  suspect  it." 

"  Well,  I  should  certainly  make  some  in- 
quiries into  its  character  before  I  trusted  it  any 
further,"  I  answered,  and  left  him. 

About  a  month  later  I  ran  against  him  out- 
side the  Law  Courts. 

"  It  was  all  right  about  Maria,"  he  said; 
"  something  did  happen  in  Edinburgh  while  I 
was  there.  That  very  morning  I  met  you  one 
of  my  oldest  clients  died  quite  suddenly  at  his 


234  WHIBLEY'S  SPIRIT. 

house  at  Queensferry,  only  a  few  miles  outside 
the  city." 

"  I'm  glad  of  that,"  I  answered;  "  I  mean,  of 
course,  for  Maria's  sake.  It  was  lucky  you 
went,  then." 

"  Well,  not  altogether,"  he  replied;  "  at  least, 
not  in  a  worldly  sense.  He  left  his  affairs  in  a 
very  complicated  state,  and  his  eldest  son  went 
straight  up  to  London  to  consult  me  about 
them,  and,  not  rinding  me  there,  and  time  being 
important,  went  to  Kebble.  I  was  rather  dis- 
appointed when  I  got  back  and  heard  about  it." 

"  Umph!  "  I  said,  "  she's  not  a  smart  spirit, 
anyway." 

"  No,"  he  answered;  "perhaps  not.  But,  you 
see,  something  really  did  happen." 

After  that  his  affection  for  "  Maria "  in- 
creased tenfold,  while  her  attachment  to  himself 
became  a  burden  to  his  friends.  She  grew  too 
big  for  her  table,  and,  dispensing  with  all 
mechanical  intermediaries,  talked  to  him  direct. 
She  followed  him  everywhere.  Mary's  lamb 
couldn't  have  been  a  bigger  nuisance.  She 
would  even  go  with  him  into  the  bedroom  and 
carry  on  long  conversations  with  him  in  the 


WHIB LEY'S  SPIRIT.  23$ 

middle  of  the  night.  His  wife  objected;  she 
said  it  seemed  hardly  decent,  but  there  was  no 
keeping  her  out. 

She  turned  up  with  him  at  picnics  and  Christ- 
mas parties.  Nobody  heard  her  speak  to  him, 
but  it  seemed  necessary  for  him  to  reply  to  her 
aloud;  and  to  see  him  suddenly  get  up  from  his 
chair  and  slip  away  to  talk  earnestly  to  nothing 
in  a  corner  disturbed  the  festivities. 

"  I  should  really  be  glad,"  he  once  confessed 
to  me,  "  to  get  a  little  time  to  myself.  She 
means  kindly,  but  it  is  a  strain.  And  then  the 
others  don't  like  it.  It  makes  them  nervous. 
I  can  see  it  does." 

One  evening  she  caused  quite  a  scene  at  the 
club.  Whibley  had  been  playing  whist,  with 
the  Major  for  a  partner.  At  the  end  of  a  game 
the  Major,  leaning  across  the  table  toward  him, 
asked,  in  a  tone  of  deadly  calm,  "  May  I  inquire, 
sir,  whether  there  was  any  earthly  reason  "  (he 
emphasized  "  earthly  ")  "  for  your  following  my 
lead  of  spades  with  your  only  trump?  " 

"  I — I — am  very  sorry,  Major,"  replied  Whib- 
ley apologetically.  "  I — I — somehow  felt  I — I 
ought  to  lead  that  queen." 


236 


WH IB  LEY'S  SPIRIT. 


"  Entirely  your  own  inspiration,  or  sug- 
gested?" persisted  the  Major,  who  had,  of 
course,  heard  of  "  Maria." 


"  I  decline  to  continue  this  game." 

Whibley  admitted  the  play  had  been  sug- 
gested to  him.  The  Major  rose  from  the  table. 

"  Then,  sir,"  said  he,  with  concentrated  in- 
dignation, "  I  decline  to  continue  this  game. 


WHIBLEY'S  SPIRIT.  237 

A  human  fool  I  can  tolerate  for  a  partner,  but  if 
I  am  to  be  hampered  by  a  d d  spirit " 

"  You've  no  right  to  say  that,"  cried  Whib- 
ley  hotly. 

"  I  apologize,"  returned  the  Major  coldly; 
"  we  will  say  a  blessed  spirit.  I  decline  to  play 
whist  with  spirits  of  any  kind;  and  I  would 
advise  you,  sir,  if  you  intend  giving  many  ex- 
hibitions with  the  lady,  first  to  teach  her  the 
rudiments  of  the  game." 

Saying  which  the  Major  put  on  his  hat  and 
left  the  club,  and  I  made  Whibley  drink  a  stiff 
glass  of  brandy  and  water,  and  sent  him  and 
Maria  home  in  a  cab. 

Whibley  got  rid  of  "  Maria  "  at  last.  It  cost 
him,  in  round  figures,  about  eight  thousand 
pounds,  but  his  family  said  it  was  worth  it. 

A  Spanish  count  hired  a  furnished  house  a 
few  doors  from  Whibley's,  and  one  evening  he 
was  introduced  to  Whibley,  and  came  home  and 
had  a  chat  with  him.  Whibley  told  him  about 
"  Maria,"  and  the  Count  quite  fell  in  love  with 
her.  He  said  that  if  only  he  had  had  such  a 
spirit  to  help  and  advise  him,  it  might  have 
altered  his  whole  life. 


238 


WHIBLEY'S  SPIRIT. 


He  was  the  first  man  who  had  ever  said  a 
kind  word  about  the  spirit,  and  Whibley  loved 
him  for  it.  The  Count  seemed  as  though  he 
could  never  see  enough  of  Whibley  after  that 


Hired  a  furnished  house. 

evening,  and  the  three  of  them — Whibley,  the 
Count,  and  "  Maria  " — would  sit  up  half  the 
night  talking  together. 

The  precise  particulars  I  never  heard.  Whib- 
ley was  always  very  reticent  on  the  matter. 
Whether  "  Maria "  really  did  exist,  and  the 


WHIB LEY'S  SPIRIT.  239 

"  Count  "  deliberately  set  to  work  to  bamboozle 
her  (she  was  fool  enough  for  anything),  or 
whether  she  was  a  mere  hallucination  of  Whib- 
ley's,  and  the  man  tricked  Whibley  by  "  hyp- 
notic suggestion  "  (as  I  believe  it  is  called),  I 
am  not  prepared  to  say.  The  only  thing  cer- 
tain is  that  "  Maria  "  convinced  Whibley  that 
the  Count  had  discovered  a  secret  gold  mine  in 
Peru.  She  said  she  knew  all  about  it,  and  coun- 
seled Whibley  to  beg  the  Count  to  let  him  put 
a  few  thousands  into  the  working  of  it. 
"  Maria,"  it  appeared,  had  known  the  Count 
from  his  boyhood,  and  could  answer  for  it  that 
he  was  the  most  honorable  man  in  all  South 
America.  Possibly  enough  he  was. 

The  Count  was  astonished  to  find  that  Whib- 
ley knew  all  about  his  mine.  Eight  thousand 
pounds  was  needed  to  start  the  workings,  but 
he  had  not  mentioned  it  to  anyone,  as  he  wanted 
to  keep  the  whole  thing  to  himself,  and  thought 
he  could  save  the  money  on  his  estates  in  Portu- 
gal. However,  to  oblige  "  Maria,"  he  would  let 
Whibley  supply  the  money.  Whibley  supplied 
it  in  cash,  and  no  one  has  ever  seen  the  Count 
since. 


240  WHIBLEY'S  SPIRIT. 

That  broke  up  Whibley's  faith  in  "  Maria," 
and  a  sensible  doctor,  getting  hold  of  him, 
threatened  to  prescribe  a  lunatic  asylum  for 
him  if  ever  he  found  him  carrying  on  with  any 
spirits  again.  That  completed  the  cure. 


THE  DEGENERATION  OF 
THOMAS  HENRY. 

HE  most  respectable  cat  I  have  ever 
known  was  Thomas  Henry.  His 
original  name  was  Thomas,  but  it 
seemed  absurd  to  call  him  that.  The 
family  at  Hawarden  would  as  soon  think  of  ad- 
dressing Mr.  Gladstone  as  "  Bill."  He  came 
to  us  from  the  Reform  Club,  via  the  butcher, 
and  the  moment  I  saw  him  I  felt  that,  of  all 
the  clubs  in  London,  that  was  the  club  he  must 
have  come  from.  Its  atmosphere  of  solid  dig- 
nity and  petrified  conservatism  seemed  to  cling 
to  him.  Why  he  left  the  club  I  am  unable,  at 
this  distance  of  time,  to  remember  positively, 
but  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  it  came  about 
owing  to  a  difference  with  the  new  chef,  an 
overbearing  personage,  who  wanted  all  the  fire 
to  himself.  The  butcher,  hearing  of  the  quar- 
rel, and  knowing  us  as  a  catless  family,  sug- 
241 


242        DEGENERA  TION  OF  THOMAS  HENRY. 

gested  a  way  out  of  the  impasse  that  was  wel- 
comed by  both  cat  and  cook.  The  parting  be- 
tween them,  I  believe,  was  purely  formal;  and 
Thomas  arrived  prejudiced  in  our  favor. 

My  wife,  the  moment  she  saw  him,  suggested 
Henry  as  a  more  suitable  name.  It  struck  me 
that  the  combination  of  the  two  would  be  still 
more  appropriate,  and  accordingly,  in  the  priv- 
acy of  the  domestic  circle,  Thomas  Henry  he 
was  called.  When  speaking  of  him  to  friends, 
we  generally  alluded  to  him  as  Thomas  Henry, 
Esquire. 

He  approved  of  us  in  his  quiet,  undemonstra- 
tive way.  He  chose  my  own  particular  easy- 
chair  for  himself,  and  stuck  to  it.  An  ordinary 
cat  I  should  have  shot  out,  but  Thomas  Henry 
was  not  the  cat  one  chivvies.  Had  I  made  it 
clear  to  him  that  I  objected  to  his  presence  in 
my  chair,  I  feel  convinced  he  would  have  re- 
garded me  much  as  I  should  expect  to  be  re- 
garded by  Queen  Victoria  were  that  gracious 
lady  to  call  upon  me  in  a  friendly  way,  and  were 
I  to  inform  her  that  I  was  busy,  and  request  her 
to  look  in  again  some  other  afternoon.  He 
would  have  risen  and  have  walked  away,  but 


DEGENERATION  OF  THOMAS  HENRY.        243 

he  never  would  have  spoken  to  me  again  so  long 
as  we  lived  under  the  same  roof. 

We  had  a  lady  staying  with  us  at  the  time — 
she  still  resides  with  us,  but  she  is  now  older, 
and  possessed  of  more  judgment — who  was  no 
respecter  of  cats.  Her  argument  was  that,  see- 
ing the  tail  stuck  up,  and  came  conveniently  to 
one's  hand,  that  was  the  natural  appendage  by 
which  to  raise  a  cat.  She  also  labored  under  the 
error  that  the  way  to  feed  a  cat  was  to  ram 
things  into  its  head,  and  that  its  pleasure  was 
to  be  taken  out  for  a  ride  in  a  doll's  perambu- 
lator. I  dreaded  the  first  meeting  of  Thomas 
Henry  with  this  lady.  I  feared  lest  she  should 
give  him  a  false  impression  of  us  as  a  family,  and 
that  we  should  suffer  in  his  eyes. 

But  I  might  have  saved  myself  all  anxiety. 
There  was  a  something  about  Thomas  Henry 
that  checked  forwardness  and  damped  familiar- 
ity. His  attitude  toward  her  was  friendly,  but 
firm.  Hesitatingly,  and  with  a  newborn  re- 
spect for  cats,  she  put  out  her  hand  timidly 
toward  his  tail.  He  gently  put  it  on  the  other 
side,  and  looked  at  her.  It  was  not  an  angry 
look  nor  an  offended  look.  It  was  the  expres- 


244        DEGENERATION  OF  THOMAS  HENRY. 

sion  with  which  Solomon  might  have  received 
the  advances  of  the  Queen  of  Sheba.  It 
expressed  condescension,  combined  with  dis- 
tance. 

He  was  really  a  most  gentlemanly  cat,  A 
friend  of  mine,  who  believes  in  the  doctrine  of 
the  transmigration  of  souls,  was  convinced  that 
he  was  Lord  Chesterfield.  He  never  clamored 
for  food,  as  other  cats  do.  He  would  sit  beside 
me  at  meals,  and  wait  till  he  was  served.  He 
would  eat  only  the  knuckle  end  of  leg  of  mut- 
ton, and  would  never  look  at  overdone  beef. 
A  visitor  of  ours  once  offered  him  a  piece  of 
gristle;  he  said  nothing,  but  quietly  left  the 
room,  and  we  did  not  see  him  again  until  our 
friend  had  departed. 

But  everyone  has  his  price,  and  Thomas 
Henry's  price  was  roast  duck.  Thomas  Henry's 
attitude  in  the  presence  of  roast  duck  came  to 
me  as  a  psychological  revelation.  It  showed 
me  at  once  the  lower  and  more  animal  side  of 
his  nature.  In  the  presence  of  roast  duck 
Thomas  Henry  became  simply  and  merely  a  cat, 
swayed  by  all  the  savage  instincts  of  his  race. 
His  dignity  fell  from  him  as  a  cloak.  He  clawed 


DEC  EN  ERA  TION  OF  THOMAS  HENR  1".        245 

for  roast  duck,  he  groveled  for  it.  I  believe  he 
would  have  sold  himself  to  the  devil  for  roast 
duck. 

We  accordingly  avoided  that  particular  dish; 
it  was  painful  to  see  a  cat's  character  so  com- 
pletely demoralized.  Besides,  his  manners, 
when  roast  duck  was  on  the  table,  afforded  a 
bad  example  to  the  children. 

He  was  a  shining  light  among  all  the  cats  of 
our  neighborhood.  One  might  have  set  one's 
watch  by  his  movements.  After  dinner  he  in- 
variably took  half  an  hour's  constitutional  in 
the  square;  at  ten  o'clock  each  night,  precisely, 
he  returned  to  the  area  door,  and  at  eleven 
o'clock  he  was  asleep  in  my  easy-chair.  He 
made  no  friends  among  the  other  cats.  He 
took  no  pleasure  in  fighting,  and  I  doubt  his 
ever  having  loved,  even  in  youth;  his  was  too 
cold  and  self-contained  a  nature;  female  society 
he  regarded  with  utter  indifference. 

So  he  lived  with  us  a  blameless  existence  dur- 
ing the  whole  winter.  In  the  summer  we  took 
him  down  with  us  into  the  country.  We 
thought  the  change  of  air  would  do  him  good; 
he  was  getting  decidedly  stout.  Alas,  poor 


246        DEGENERATION  OF  THOMAS  HENRY. 

Thomas  Henry!  The  country  was  his  ruin. 
What  brought  about  the  change  I  cannot  say. 
Maybe  the  air  was  too  bracing.  He  slid  down 
the  moral  incline  with  frightful  rapidity.  The 
first  night  he  stopped  out  till  eleven,  the  second 
night  he  never  came  home  at  all,  the  third  night 
he  came  home  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
minus  half  the  fur  on  the  top  of  his  head.  Of 
course,  there  was  a  lady  in  the  case;  indeed, 
judging  by  the  riot  that  went  on  all  night,  I 
am  inclined  to  think  there  must  have  been  a 
dozen.  He  was  certainly  a  fine  cat,  and  they 
took  to  calling  for  him  in  the  daytime.  Then 
gentlemen  cats  who  had  been  wronged  took  to 
calling  also,  and  demanding  explanations,  which 
Thomas  Henry,  to  do  him  justice,  was  always 
ready  to  accord. 

The  village  boys  used  to  loiter  round  all  day 
to  watch  the  fights;  and  angry  housewives 
would  be  constantly  charging  into  our  kitchen 
to  fling  dead  cats  upon  the  table,  and  appeal  to 
heaven  and  myself  for  justice.  Our  kitchen  be- 
came a  veritable  cat's  morgue,  and  I  had  to  pur- 
chase a  new  kitchen  table.  The  cook  said  it 
would  make  her  work  simpler  if  she  could  keep 


DEGENERA  TION  OF  THOMAS  HENRY.        247 

a  table  entirely  to  herself.  She  said  it  quite  con- 
fused her,  having  so  many  dead  cats  lying  round 
among  the  joints  and  vegetables.  She  was 
afraid  of  making  a  mistake.  Accordingly,  the 
old  table  was  placed  under  the  window,  and  de- 
voted to  the  cats;  and  after  that  she  would 
never  allow  anyone  to  bring  a  cat,  however 
dead,  to  her  table. 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  with  it?  "  I 
heard  her  asking  an  excited  lady  on  one  occa- 
sion; "  cook  it?  " 

"  It's  my  cat,"  said  the  lady,  "  that's  what 
that  is." 

"  Well,  I'm  not  making  cat-pie  to-day,"  an- 
swered our  cook.  "  You  take  it  to  its  proper 
table.  This  is  my  table." 

At  first  "  justice "  was  generally  satisfied 
with  half  a  crown,  but  as  time  went  on  cats  rose. 
I  had  hitherto  regarded  cats  as  a  cheap  com- 
modity, and  I  became  surprised  at  the  value  at- 
tached to  them.  I  began  to  think  seriously  of 
breeding  cats  as  an  industry.  At  the  prices  cur- 
rent in  that  village  I  could  have  made  an  income 
of  thousands. 

"  Look  what  your  beast  has  done,"  said  one 


248        DEGENERA  TION  OF  THOMAS  HENR  Y. 

irate  female,  to  whom  I  had  been  called  out  in 
the  middle  of  dinner. 

I  looked.  Thomas  Henry  appeared  to  have 
"  done  "  a  mangy,  emaciated  animal  that  must 
have  been  far  happier  dead  than  alive.  Had  the 
poor  creature  been  mine,  I  should  have  thanked 
him;  but  some  people  never  know  when  they 
are  well  off. 

"  I  wouldn't  ha'  taken  a  five-pun  note  for  that 
cat,"  said  the  lady. 

"  It's  a  matter  of  opinion,"  I  replied;  "  but, 
personally,  I  think  you  have  been  unwise  to  re- 
fuse it.  Taking  the  animal  as  it  stands,  I  don't 
feel  inclined  to  give  you  more  than  a  shilling  for 
it.  If  you  think  you  can  do  better  by  taking  it 
elsewhere,  you  can  do  so." 

"  He  was  more  like  a  Christian  than  a  cat," 
said  the  lady. 

"  I'm  not  taking  dead  Christians,"  I  answered 
firmly;  "and  even  if  I  were,  I  wouldn't  give 
more  than  a  shilling  for  a  specimen  like  that. 
You  can  consider  him  as  a  Christian,  or  you  can 
consider  him  as  a  cat ;  but  he's  not  worth  more 
than  a  shilling  in  either  case." 

We  settled  eventually  for  eighteenpence. 


DEGENERATION  OF  THOMAS  HENRY.        249 

The  number  of  cats  that  Thomas  Henry  con- 
trived to  dispose  of  also  surprised  me.  Quite  a 
massacre  of  cats  seemed  to  be  in  progress. 

One  evening,  going  into  the  kitchen,  for  I 
made  it  a  practice  now  to  visit  the  kitchen  each 
evening  to  inspect  the  daily  consignment  of 
dead  cats,  I  found,  among  others,  a  curiously 
marked  tortoiseshell  cat  lying  on  the  table. 

"  That  cat's  worth  half  a  sovereign,"  said  the 
owner,  who  was  standing  by,  drinking  beer. 

I  took  up  the  animal  and  examined  it. 

"  Your  cat  killed  him  yesterday,"  continued 
the  man;  "it's  a  burning  shame." 

"  My  cat  has  killed  him  three  times,"  I  re- 
plied. "  He  was  killed  on  Saturday  as  Mrs. 
Hedger's  cat;  on  Monday  he  was  killed  for  Mrs. 
Myers.  I  was  not  quite  positive  on  Monday; 
but  I  had  my  suspicions,  and  I  made  notes. 
Now  I  recognize  him.  You  take  my  advice  and 
bury  him  before  he  breeds  a  fever.  I  don't  care 
how  many  lives  a  cat  has  got,  I  only  pay  for 
one." 

We  gave  Thomas  Henry  every  chance  to  re- 
form; but  he  only  went  from  bad  to  worse,  and 
added  poaching  and  chicken  stalking  to  his 


250       DEGENERATION  OF  THOMAS  HENRY. 

other  crimes;  and  I  grew  tired  of  paying  for  his 
vices. 

I  consulted  the  gardener,  and  the  gardener 
said  he  had  known  cats  taken  that  way  before. 

"  Do  you  know  of  any  cure  for  it?  "  I  asked. 

"  Well,  sir,"  replied  the  gardener,  "  I  have 
heard  as  how  a  dose  of  brickbat  and  pond  is  a 
good  thing  in  a  general  way." 

"  We'll  try  him  with  a  dose  just  before  bed- 
time," I  answered.  The  gardener  administered 
it,  and  we  had  no  further  trouble  with  him. 

Poor  Thomas  Henry!  It  shows  to  one  how 
a  reputation  for  respectability  may  lie  in  the 
mere  absence  of  temptation.  Born  and  bred  in 
the  atmosphere  of  the  Reform  Club,  what  gen- 
tleman could  go  wrong?  I  was  sorry  for 
Thomas  Henry,  and  I  have  never  believed  in 
the  moral  influence  of  the  country  since. 


THE    MAN    WHO    WOULD 
MANAGE. 

T  has  been  told  me  by  those  in  a  posi- 
tion to  know — and  I  can  believe  it — 
that  at  nineteen  months  of  age  he 
wept  because  his  grandmother  would 
not  allow  him  to  feed  her  with  a  spoon; 
and  that  at  three  and  a  half  he  was  fished,  in 
an  exhausted  condition,  out  of  the  water  butt, 
whither  he  had  climbed  for  the  purpose  of 
teaching  a  frog  to  swim. 

Two  years  later  he  permanently  injured  his 
left  eye  showing  the  cat  how  to  carry  kittens 
without  hurting  them;  and  about  the  same 
period  was  dangerously  stung  by  a  bee  while 
conveying  it  from  a  flower  where,  as  it  seeemd 
to  him,  it  was  only  wasting  its  time,  to  one 
more  rich  in  honey-making  properties. 

His  desire  was  always   to   help   others.     He 
would    spend    whole   mornings    explaining    to 
elderly  hens  how  to  hatch  eggs;  and  would  give 
251 


252          THE  MAN    WHO    WOULD  MANAGE. 

up  an  afternoon's  blackberrying  to  sit  at  home 
and  crack  nuts  for  his  pet  squirrel.  Before  he 
was  seven  he  would  argue  with  his  mother  upon 
the  management  of  children,  and  reprove  his 
father  for  the  way  he  was  bringing  him  up. 

As  a  child  nothing  afforded  him  greater  de- 
light than  "  minding  "  other  children — or  them, 
less.  He  would  take  upon  himself  this  haras- 
sing duty  entirely  of  his  own  accord,  without 
hope  of  reward  or  gratitude.  It  was  immaterial 
to  him  whether  the  other  children  were  older 
than  himself  or  younger,  stronger  or  weaker; 
whenever  and  wherever  he  found  them,  he  set 
to  work  to  "  mind  "  them.  Once,  during  a 
school  treat,  piteous  cries  were  heard  coming 
from  a  distant  part  of  the  wood,  and,  upon 
search  being  made,  he  was  discovered  prone 
upon  the  ground,  with  a  cousin  of  his,  a  boy 
twice  his  own  weight,  sitting  upon  him  and 
steadily  whacking  him.  Having  rescued  him, 
the  teacher  said:  "Why  don't  you  keep  with 
the  little  boys?  What  are  you  doing  along  with 
him?  " 

"  Please,  sir,"  he  answered,  "  I  was  minding 
him." 


THE  MAN    WHO    WOULD  MANAGE.         253 

He  would  have  "  minded  "  Noah  if  he  had 
got  hold  of  him. 

He  was  a  good-natured  lad,  and  at  school  he 
was  always  willing  for  the  whole  class  to  copy 
from  his  slate — indeed  he  would  urge  them  to 
do  so.  He  meant  it  kindly;  but,  inasmuch  as 
his  answers  were  invariably  quite  wrong — with 
a  distinctive  and  inimitable  wrongness  peculiar 
to  himself — the  result  to  his  followers  was  emi- 
nently unsatisfactory;  and,  with  the  shallow- 
ness  of  youth,  that,  ignoring  motives,  judges 
solely  from  results,  they  would  wait  for  him  out- 
side and  punch  him. 

All  his  energies  went  to  the  instruction  of 
others,  leaving  none  for  his  own  purposes.  He 
would  take  callow  youths  to  his  chambers  and 
teach  them  to  box. 

"  Now,  try  and  hit  me  on  the  nose,"  he  would 
say,  standing  before  them  in  an  attitude  of  de- 
fense. "  Don't  be  afraid.  Hit  as  hard  as  ever 
you  can." 

And  they  would  do  it  ;•  and  so  soon  as  he  had 
recovered  from  his  surprise,  and  a  little  lessened 
the  bleeding,  he  would  explain  to  them  how 
they  had  done  it  all  wrong,  and  how  easily  he 


254 


THE  MAN    WHO    WOULD  MANAGE. 


could  have  stopped  the  blow  if  they  had  only  hit 
him  properly. 

Twice,  at  golf,  he  lamed  himself  for  over  a 
week,  showing  a  novice  how  to  "  drive  ";  and, 
at  cricket,  on  one  occasion,  I  remember  seeing 


Lamed  himself  for  over  a  week. 

his  middle  stump  go  down  like  a  ninepin  just 
as  he  was  explaining  to  the  bowler  how  to  get 
the  balls  in  straight.  After  which  he  had  a  long 
argument  with  the  umpire  as  to  whether  he  was 
in  or  out. 


THE  MAN    WHO    WOULD  MANAGE.          255 

He  has  been  known,  during  a  stormy  Channel 
passage,  to  rush  excitedly  upon  the  bridge  in 
order  to  inform  the  captain  that  he  had  "  just 
seen  a  light  about  two  miles  away  to  the  left  " ; 
and  if  he  is  on  the  top  of  an  omnibus  he  gener- 
ally sits  beside  the  driver  and  points  out  to  him 
the  various  obstacles  likely  to  impede  their 
progress. 

It  was  upon  an  omnibus  that  my  own  personal 
acquaintanceship  with  him  began.  I  was  sitting 
behind  two  ladies  when  the  conductor  came  up 
to  collect  fares.  One  of  them  handed  him  a 
sixpence,  telling  him  to  take  to  Piccadilly  Circus 
— which  was  twopence. 

"  No,"  said  the  other  lady  to  her  friend,  hand- 
ing the  man  a  shilling;  "  I  owe  you  sixpence; 
you  give  me  fourpence,  and  I'll  pay  for  the 
two." 

The  conductor  took  the  shilling,  punched 
two  twopenny  tickets,  and  then  stood  trying  to 
think  it  out. 

"  That's  right,"  said  the  lady  who  had  spoken 
last ;  "  give  my  friend  fourpence  " — the  con- 
ductor did  so — "  now  you  give  that  fourpence 
to  me  " — the  friend  handed  it  to  her — "  and 


256          THE   MAN    WHO    WOULD  MANAGE. 

you,"  she  concluded  to  the  conductor,  "  give 
me  eightpence.  Then  we  shall  all  be  right." 

The  conductor  doled  out  to  her  the  eight- 
pence — the  sixpence  he  had  taken  from  the  first 
lady,  with  a  penny  and  two  halfpennies  out  of 
his  own  bag,  distrustfully,  and  retired,  mutter- 
ing something  about  his  duties  not  including 
those  of  a  lightning  calculator. 

"  Now,"  said  the  elder  lady  to  the  younger, 
"  I  owe  you  a  shilling." 

I  deemed  the  incident  closed,  when  suddenly 
a  florid  gentleman  on  the  opposite  seat  called 
out  in  stentorian  tones: 

"  Hi !  conductor,  you've  cheated  these  ladies 
out  of  fourpence." 

"  'Go's  cheated  'oo  out  o'  fourpence?  "  replied 
the  indignant  conductor  from  the  top  of  the 
steps.  "  It  was  a  twopenny  fare." 

"  Two  twopences  don't  make  eightpence," 
retorted  the  florid  gentleman  hotly.  "  How 
much  did  you  give  the  fellow,  my  dear? " 
he  asked,  addressing  the  first  of  the  young 
ladies. 

"  I  gave  him  sixpence,"  replied  the  lady,  ex- 
amining her  purse.  "  And  then  I  gave  you  four- 


THE   MAN    WHO    WOULD  MANAGE.          257 

pence,  you  know,"  she  added,  addressing  her 
companion. 

"  That's  a  dear  twopen'oth,"  chimed  in  the 
common-looking  man  on  the  seat  behind. 

"  Oh,  that's  impossible,  dear!  "  returned  the 
other,  "  because  I  owed  you  sixpence  to  begin 
with." 

"  But  I  did,"  persisted  the  first  lady. 

"  You  gave  me  a  shilling,"  said  the  conductor, 
who  had  returned,  pointing  an  accusing  fore- 
finger at  the  elder  of  the  ladies. 

The  elder  lady  nodded. 

"  And  I  gave  you  sixpence  and  two  pennies, 
didn't  I?" 

The  lady  admitted  it. 

"  An'  I  give  'er  " — he  pointed  toward  the 
younger  lady — "  fourpence,  didn't  I?  " 

"  Which  I  gave  you,  you  know,  dear,"  re- 
marked the  younger  lady. 

"  Blow  me  if  it  ain't  me  as  'as  been  cheated 
out  of  the  fourpence,"  cried  the  conductor. 

"  But,"  said  the  florid  gentleman,  "  the  other 
lady  gave  you  sixpence." 

"  Which  I  give  to  'er,"  replied  the  conductor, 
again  pointing  the  finger  of  accusation  at  the 


258 


THE  MAN    WHO    WOULD  MANAGE. 


elder  lady.    "  You  can  search  my  bag  if  yer  like. 
I  ain't  got  a  bloomin'  sixpence  on  me." 

By  this  time  everybody  had  forgotten  what 
they  had  done,  and  contradicted  themselves 
and  one  another.  The  florid  man  took  it  upon 


"  I  ain't  got  a  bloomin'  sixpence  on  me." 

himself  to  put  everybody  right,  with  the  result 
that  before  Piccadilly  Circus  was  reached  three 
passengers  had  threatened  to  report  the  con- 
ductor for  unbecoming  language;  the  con- 
ductor had  called  a  policeman,  and  had  taken 
the  names  and  addresses  of  the  two  ladies,  in- 


THE   MAN    WHO    WOULD  MANAGE.          259 

tending  to  sue  them  for  the  fourpence  (which 
they  wanted  to  pay,  but  which  the  florid  man 
would  not  allow  them  to  do),  the  younger  lady 
had  become  convinced  that  the  elder  lady  had 
meant  to  cheat  her,  and  the  elder  lady  was  in 
tears. 

The  florid  gentleman  and  myself  continued  to 
Charing  Cross  Station.  At  the  booking  office 
window  it  transpired  that  we  were  bound  for 
the  same  suburb,  and  we  journeyed  down  to- 
gether. He  talked  about  the  fourpence  all  the 
way. 

At  my  gate  we  shook  hands,  and  he  was  good 
enough  to  express  delight  at  the  discovery  that 
we  were  near  neighbors.  What  attracted  him 
to  myself  I  failed  to  understand,  for  he  had 
bored  me  considerably,  and  I  had,  to  the  best 
of  my  ability,  snubbed  him.  Subsequently  I 
learned  that  it  was  a  peculiarity  of  his  to  be 
charmed  with  anyone  who  did  not  openly  insult 
him. 

Three  days  afterward  he  burst  into  my  study 
unannounced — he  appeared  to  regard  himself  as 
my  bosom  friend — and  asked  me  to  forgive  him 
for  not  having  called  sooner:  which  I  did. 


260          THE  MAN    WHO    WOULD  MANAGE. 

"  Lmet  the  postman  as  I  was  coming  along," 
he  said,  handing  me  a  blue  envelope,  "  and  he 
gave  me  this  for  you." 

I  saw  it  was  an  application  for  the  water 
rate. 

We  must  make  a  stand  against  this,"  he  con- 
tinued. "  That's  for  water  to  the  29th  of  Sep- 
tember. You've  no  right  to  pay  it  in  June." 

I  replied  to  the  effect  that  water  rates  had  to 
be  paid,  and  that  it  seemed  to  me  immaterial 
whether  they  were  paid  in  June  or  September. 

"  That's  not  it,"  he  answered;  "  it's  the  prin- 
ciple of  the  thing.  Why  should  you  pay  for 
water  you  have  never  had?  What  right  have 
they  to  bully  you  into  paying  what  you  don't 
owe?  " 

He  was  a  fluent  talker,  and  I  was  ass  enough 
to  listen  to  him.  By  the  end  of  half  an  hour  he 
had  persuaded  me  that  the  question  was  bound 
up  with  the  inalienable  rights  of  man,  and  that 
if  I  paid  that  fourteen  and  tenpence  in  June, 
instead  of  in  September,  I  should  be  unworthy 
of  the  privileges  my  forefathers  had  fought  and 
died  to  bestow  upon  me. 

He  told  me  the  company  had  not  a  leg  to 


THE  MAN    WHO    WOULD  MANAGE.         261 

stand  upon,  and,  at  his  instigation,  I  sat  down 
and  wrote  an  insulting  letter  to  the  chairman. 

The  secretary  replied  that,  having  regard  to 
the  attitude  I  had  taken  up,  it  would  be  incum- 
bent upon  themselves  to  treat  it  as  a  test  case, 
and  presumed  that  my  solicitors  would  accept 
service  on  my  behalf. 

When  I  showed  him  this  letter  he  was 
delighted. 

"  You  leave  it  to  me,"  he  said,  pocketing  the 
correspondence,  "  and  we'll  teach  them  a 
lesson." 

I  left  it  to  him.  My  only  excuse  was  that  at 
the  time  I  was  immersed  in  the  writing  of  a 
farcical  comedy.  What  little  sense  I  possessed 
must,  I  suppose,  have  been  absorbed  by  the 
play. 

The  magistrate's  decision  somewhat  damp- 
ened my  ardor,  but  only  inflamed  his  zeal. 
Magistrates,  he  said,  were  muddle-headed  old 
fogies.  This  was  a  matter  for  a  judge. 

The  judge  was  a  kindly  old  gentleman,  and 
said  that,  bearing  in  mind  the  unsatisfactory 
wording  of  the  sub-clause,  he  did  not  think  he 
could  allow  the  company  their  costs;  so  that, 


262  THE  MAN  WHO    WOULD  MANAGE. 

all  told,  I  got  off  for  something  under  fifty 
pounds,  inclusive  of  the  original  fourteen  and 
tenpence. 

Afterward  our  friendship  waned;  but,  living 
as  we  did  in  the  same  outlying  suburb,  I  was 
bound  to  see  a  good  deal  of  him  and  to  hear 
more. 

At  parties  of  all  kinds  he  was  particularly 
prominent;  and  on  such  occasions,  being  in 
his  most  good-natured  mood,  was  most  to  be 
dreaded.  No  human  being  worked  harder  for 
the  enjoyment  of  others,  or  produced  more  uni- 
versal wretchedness. 

One  Christmas  afternoon,  calling  upon  a 
friend,  I  found  some  fourteen  or  fifteen  elderly 
ladies  and  gentlemen  trotting  solemnly  round 
a  row  of  chairs  in  the  center  of  the  drawing 
room,  while  Poppleton  played  the  piano.  Every 
now  and  then  Poppleton  would  suddenly  cease, 
and  everyone  would  drop  wearily  into  the  near- 
est chair,  evidently  glad  of  a  rest — all  but  one, 
who  would  thereupon  creep  quietly  away,  fol- 
lowed by  the  envying  looks  of  those  left  behind. 
I  stood  by  the  door  watching  the  weird  scene. 
Presently  an  escaped  player  came  toward  me, 


THE  MAN    WHO    WOULD  MANAGE.          263 

and  I  inquired  of  him  what  the  ceremony  was 
supposed  to  signify. 

"  Don't    ask    me,"    he    answered    grumpily. 
"  Some    of    Poppleton's    d d    tomfoolery." 


Trotting  solemnly  round  a  row  of  chairs. 

Then  he  added  savagely:  "  We've  got  to  play 
forfeits  after  this." 

The  servant  was  still  waiting  a  favorable  op- 
portunity to  announce  me.  I  gave  her  a  shil- 
ling not  to,  and  got  away  unperceived. 

After  a  satisfactory  dinner  he  would  suggest 
an  impromptu  dance,  and  want  you  to  roll  up 


264          THE  MAN    WHO    WOULD  MANAGE. 

mats  or  help  him  move  the  piano  to  the  other 
end  of  the  room. 

He  knew  enough  round  games  to  have  start- 
ed a  small  purgatory  of  his  own.  Just  as  you 
were  in  the  middle  of  an  interesting  discussion, 
or  a  delightful  tete-a-tete  with  a  pretty  woman, 
he  would  swoop  down  upon  you  with:  "  Come 
along;  we're  going  to  play  literary  conse- 
quences;" and,  dragging  you  to  the  table,  and 
putting  a  piece  of  paper  and  a  pencil  before  you, 
would  tell  you  to  write  a  description  of  your 
favorite  heroine  in  fiction;  and  would  see  that 
you  did  it. 

He  never  spared  himself.  It  was  always  he 
who  would  volunteer  to  escort  the  old  ladies  to 
the  station,  and  who  would  never  leave  them 
until  he  had  seen  them  safely  into  the  wrong 
train.  He  it  was  who  would  play  "  wild  beasts  " 
with  the  children,  and  frighten  them  into  fits 
that  would  last  all  night. 

So  far  as  intention  went,  he  was  the  kindliest 
man  alive.  He  never  visited  poor  sick  persons 
without  taking  with  him  in  his  pocket  some 
little  delicacy  calculated  to  disagree  with  them 
and  make  them  worse.  He  arranged  yachting 


THE  MAN    WHO    WOULD  MANAGE. 


265 


excursions  for  bad  sailors,  entirely  at  his  own 
expense,  and  seemed  to  regard  their  subsequent 
agonies  as  ingratitude. 

He  loved  to  manage  a  wedding.     Once   he 


Escorted  old  ladies  to  the  station. 

planned  matters  so  that  the  bride  arrived  at  the 
altar  three-quarters  of  an  hour  before  the 
groom,  which  led  to  unpleasantness  upon  a  day 
that  should  have  been  filled  only  with  joy; 
and  once  he  forgot  the  clergyman.  But  he 


266          THE  MAN   WHO    WOULD  MANAGE. 

was  always  ready  to  admit  when  he  made  a 
mistake. 

At  funerals,  also,  he  was  to  the  fore,  pointing 
out  to  the  grief-stricken  relatives  how  much 
better  it  was  for  all  concerned  that  the  corpse 
was  dead,  and  expressing  a  pious  hope  that  they 
would  soon  join  it. 

The  chiefest  delight  of  his  life,  however,  was 
to  be  mixed  up  in  other  people's  domestic  quar- 
rels. No  domestic  quarrel  for  miles  round  was 
complete  without  him.  He  generally  came  in 
as  mediator,  and  finished  as  leading  witness  for 
the  appellant. 

As  a  journalist  or  politician  his  wonderful 
grasp  of  other  people's  business  would  have 
won  for  him  esteem.  The  error  he  made  was 
working  it  out  in  practice. 


THE    MAN   WHO    LIVED  FOR 
OTHERS. 

HE  first  time  we  met — to  speak — he 
was  sitting  with  his  back  against  a 
pollard  willow,  smoking  a  clay  pipe. 
He  smoked  it  very  slowly,  but  very 
conscientiously.     After  each  whiff  he  removed 
the  pipe  from  his  mouth  and  fanned  away  the 
smoke  with  his  cap. 

"  Feeling  bad?  "  I  asked  from  behind  a  tree, 
at  the  same  time  making  ready  for  a  run,  big 
boys'  answers  to  small  boys'  impertinences  be- 
ing usually  of  the  nature  of  things  best  avoided. 
To  my   surprise — and   relief,   for  at   second 
glance  I  perceived    I    had   underestimated  the 
length  of  his  leg — he  appeared  to  regard  the 
question  as  a  natural  and  proper  one,  replying 
with  unaffected  candor: 
"  Not  yet." 

My  desire  became  to  comfort  him — a  senti- 
267 


268      THE  MAN    WHO  LIVED  FOR   OTHERS. 

ment  I  think  he  understood  and  was  grateful 
for.  Advancing  into  the  open,  I  sat  down  over 
against  him,  and  watched  him  for  a  while  in 


/sA- 


'Wl 


He  sucked  it  very  slowly  but  very  conscientiously. 

silence.  Presently  he  said:  "  Have  you  ever 
tried  drinking  beer?  " 

I  admitted  I  had  not. 

"  Oh,  it  is  beastly  stuff!  "  he  rejoined,  with  an 
involuntary  shudder. 

Rendered  forgetful  of  present  trouble  by  bit- 
ter recollection  of  the  past,  he  puffed  away  at 
his  pipe  carelessly  and  without  judgment. 

"  Do  you  often  drink  it?  "  I  inquired. 

"Yes,"  he  replied  gloomily;  "all  we  fellows 
in  the  fifth  form  drink  beer  and  smoke  pipes." 


THE  MAN    WHO  LIVED  FOR   OTHERS.      269 

A  deeper  tinge  of  green  spread  itself  over  his 
face.  He  rose  suddenly  and  made  toward  the 
hedge.  Before  he  reached  it,  however,  he 
stopped  and  addressed  me,  but  without  turning 
round. 

"  If  you  follow  me,  young  'un,  or  look,  I'll 
punch  your  head,"  he  said  swiftly,  and  disap- 
peared with  a  gurgle. 

He  left  at  the  end  of  the  term,  and  I  did  not 
see  him  again  until  we  were  both  young  men. 
Then  one  day  I  ran  against  him  in  Oxford 
Street,  and  he  asked  me  to  come  and  spend  a 
few  days  with  his  people  in  Surrey. 

I  found  him  wan-looking  and  depressed,  and 
every  now  and  then  he  sighed.  During  a  walk 
across  the  common  he  cheered  up  considerably, 
but  the  moment  we  got  back  to  the  house  door 
he  seemed  to  recollect  himself,  and  began  to 
sigh  again.  He  ate  no  dinner  whatever,  merely 
sipping  a  glass  of  wine  and  crumbling  a  piece 
of  bread.  I  was  troubled  at  noticing  this,  but 
his  relatives — a  maiden  aunt,  who  kept  house, 
two  elder  sisters,  and  a  weak-eyed  female  cousin 
who  had  left  her  husband  behind  her  in  India — 
were  evidently  charmed.  They  glanced  at  each 


270      THE   MAN    WHO  LIVED  FOR   OTHERS. 

other,  and  nodded  and  smiled.  Once,  in  a  fit 
of  abstraction,  he  swallowed  a  bit  of  crust,  and 
immediately  they  all  looked  pained  and  sur- 
prised. 

In  the  drawing  room,  under  cover  of  a  senti- 
mental song,  sung  by  the  female  cousin,  I  ques- 
tioned his  aunt  on  the  subject. 

"What's  the  matter  with  him?"  I  said. 
"Is  he  ill?" 

The  old  lady  chuckled. 

'  You'll  be  like  that  one  day,"  she  whispered 
gleefully. 

"When?"  I  asked,  not  unnaturally  alarmed. 

"  When  you're  in  love,"  she  answered. 

"  Is  fie  in  love?  "  I  inquired,  after  a  pause. 

"  Can't  you  see  he  is?  "  she  replied  somewhat 
scornfully. 

I  was  a  young  man,  and  interested  in  the 
question. 

"  Won't  he  ever  eat  any  dinner  till  he's  got 
over  it?  "  I  asked. 

She  looked  round  sharply  at  me,  but  appa- 
rently decided  that  I  was  only  foolish. 

'  You  wait  until  your  time  comes,"  she  an- 
swered, shaking  her  curls  at  me;  "  you  won't 


THE   MAN    WHO  LIVED  FOR   OTHERS.      271 

care  much  about  your  dinner — not  if  you  are 
really  in  love." 

In  the  night,  about  half-past  eleven,  I  heard, 
as  I  thought,  footsteps  in  the  passage,  and, 
creeping  to  the  door  and  opening  it,  I  saw  the 
figure  of  my  friend  in  dressing  gown  and  slip- 
pers, vanishing  down  the  stairs.  My  idea  was 
that,  his  brain  weakened  by  trouble,  he  had  de- 
veloped sleep-walking  tendencies.  Partly  out 
of  curiosity,  partly  tO'  watch  over  him,  I  slipped 
on  a  pair  of  trousers  and  followed  him. 

He  placed  his  candle  on  the  kitchen  table, 
and  made  a  bee-line  for  the  pantry  door,  from 
where  he  subsequently  emerged  with  two 
pounds  of  cold  beef  on  a  plate,  and  about  a 
quart  of  beer  in  a  jug;  and  I  came  away,  leaving 
him  fumbling  for  pickles. 

I  assisted  at  his  wedding,  where,  it  seemed  to 
me,  he  endeavored  to  display  more  ecstasy  than 
it  was  possible  for  any  human  being  to  feel;  and, 
fifteen  months  later,  happening  to  catch  sight 
of  an  advertisement  in  the  birth  column  of  the 
Times,  I  called  on  my  way  home  from  the  city 
to  congratulate  him.  He  was  pacing  up  and 
down  the  passage  with  his  hat  on,  pausing  at 


272      THE  MAN    WHO  LIVED  FOR   OTHERS. 

intervals  to  partake  of  an  uninviting  looking 
meal,  consisting  of  a  cold  mutton  chop  and  a 
glass  of  lemonade,  spread  out  upon  a  chair. 
Seeing  that  the  cook  and  housemaid  were  wan- 
dering about  the  house  evidently  bored  for  want 
of  something  to  do,  and  that  the  dining  room — 
where  he  would  have  been  much  more  out  of  the 
way — was  empty  and  quite  in  order,  I  failed  at 
first  to  understand  the  reason  for  his  deliberate 
choice  of  discomfort.  I,  however,  kept  my  re- 
flections to  myself,  and  inquired  after  the 
mother  and  child. 

"  Couldn't  be  better,"  he  replied,  with  a 
groan.  "  The  doctor  said  he'd  never  had  a  more 
satisfactory  case  in  all  his  experience." 

"  Oh,  I'm  glad  to  hear  that,"  I  answered; 
"  I  was  afraid  you'd  been  worrying  yourself." 

"Worried!"  he  exclaimed;  "my  dear  boy, 
I  don't  know  whether  I'm  standing  on  my  head 
or  my  heels  "  (he  gave  one  that  idea).  "  This 
is  the  first  morsel  of  food  that's  passed  my  lips 
for  twenty-four  hours." 

At  this  moment  the  nurse  appeared  at  the 
top  of  the  stairs.  He  flew  toward  her,  upsetting 
the  lemonade  in  his  excitement. 


THE  MAN    WHO  LIVED  FOR   OTHERS.      273 

"  What  is  it?  "  he  asked  hoarsely.  "  Is  it  all 
right?" 

The  old  lady  glanced  from  him  to  his  cold 
chop,  and  smiled  approvingly. 

"  They're  doing  splendidly,"  she  answered, 
patting  him  on  the  shoulder  in  a  motherly  fash- 
ion. "  Don't  you  worry." 

"  I  can't  help  it,  Mrs.  Jobson,"  he  replied,  sit- 
ting down  upon  the  bottom  stair,  and  leaning 
his  head  against  the  banisters. 

"  Of  course  you  can't,"  said  Mrs.  Jobson  ad- 
miringly; "and  you  wouldn't  be  much  of  a 
man  if  you  could." 

Then  it  was  borne  in  upon  me  why  he  wore 
his  hat,  and  dined  off  cold  chops  in  the  passage. 

The  following  summer  they  rented  a  pictur- 
esque old  house  in  Berkshire,  and  invited  me 
down  from  a  Saturday  to  Monday.  Their  place 
was  near  the  river,  so  I  slipped  a  suit  of  flannels 
in  my  bag,  and  on  the  Sunday  morning  I  came 
down  in  them.  He  met  me  in  the  garden.  He 
was  dressed  in  a  frock  coat  and  a  white  waist- 
coat; and  I  noticed  that  he  kept  looking  at  me 
out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  and  that  he  seemed 
to  have  a  trouble  on  his  mind.  The  first  break- 


274      THE  MAN    WHO  LIVED  FOR   OTHERS. 

fast  bell  rang,  and  then  he  said:  "  You  haven't 
got  any  proper  clothes  with  you,  have  you?  " 

"Proper  clothes!"  I  exclaimed,  stopping  in 
some  alarm.  "  Why,  has  anything  given  way?  " 

"  No — not  that,"  he  explained.  "  I  mean 
clothes  to  go  to  church  in." 

"  Church !  "  I  said.  "  You're  surely  not  go- 
ing to  church  a  fine  day  like  this?  I  made  sure 
you'd  be  playing  tennis  or  going  on  the  river. 
You  always  used  to." 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  nervously  flicking  a  rose 
bush  with  a  twig  he  had  picked  up.  "  You  see, 
it  isn't  ourselves  exactly.  Maud  and  I  would 
rather  like  to;  but  our  cook — she's  Scotch,  and 
a  little  strict  in  her  notions." 

"  And  does  she  insist  on  your  going  to  church 
every  Sunday  morning?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Well,"  he  answered,  "  she  thinks  it  strange 
if  we  don't,  and  so  we  generally  do,  just  in  the 
morning — and  evening.  And  then  in  the  after- 
noon a  few  of  the  village  girls  drop  in,  and  we 
have  a  little  singing  and — and  that  sort  of 
thing.  I  never  like  hurting  anyone's  feelings, 
if  I  can  help  it." 

I   did   not   say   what  I  thought.     Instead,  I 


THE  MAN    WHO   LIVED   FOR   OTHERS.      275 

said:     "  I've  got  the  tweed  suit  I  wore  yester- 
day.   I  can  put  that  on,  if  you  like." 

He  ceased  flicking  the  rose  bush,  and  knitted 


I'm  afraid  it  would  shock  her.' 


his  brows.     He  seemed  to  be  recalling  it  to  his 
imagination. 

"  No,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head.  "  I'm  afraid 
it  would  shock  her.  It's  my  fault,  I  know,"  he 
added  remorsefully.  "  I  ought  to  have  told 
you." 


276      THE  MAN    WHO  LIVED  FOR    OTHERS. 

Then  an  idea  came  to  him. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said,  "  you  wouldn't  care  to 
pretend  you're  ill,  and  stop  in  bed,  just  for  the 
day." 

I  explained  that  my  conscience  would  not 
permit  my  being  a  party  to  such  deception. 

"  No,  I  thought  you  wouldn't,"  he  replied. 
"  I  must  explain  it  to  her.  I  think  I'll  say 
you've  lost  your  bag.  I  shouldn't  like  her  to 
think  bad  of  us." 

Later  on  a  fourteenth  cousin  died,  leaving 
him  a  large  fortune.  He  purchased  an  estate 
in  Yorkshire,  and  became  a  "  county  family," 
and  then  his  real  troubles  began. 

From  May  to  the  middle  of  August — save  for 
a  little  fly  fishing,  which  generally  resulted  in 
his  getting  his  feet  wet  and  catching  a  cold — 
life  was  fairly  peaceful;  but  from  early  autumn 
to  late  spring  he  found  the  work  decidedly  try- 
ing. He  was  a  stout  man,  constitutionally  ner- 
vous of  firearms,  and  a  six  hours'  tramp  with  a 
heavy  gun  across  plowed  fields,  in  company 
with  a  crowd  of  careless  persons  who  kept  blaz-- 
ing  away  within  an  inch  of  other  people's  noses, 
harassed  and  exhausted  him.  He  had  to  get 


THE  MAN    WHO  LIVED  FOR   OTHERS.      277 

out  of  bed  at  four  on  chilly  October  mornings 
to  go  cub-hunting;  and  twice  a  week  through- 
out the  winter — except  when  a  blessed  frost 
brought  him  a  brief  respite — he  had  to  ride  to 
hounds.  That  he  usually  got  off  with  nothing 
more  serious  than  mere  bruises  and  slight  con- 
cussions of  the  spine,  he  probably  owed  to  the 
fortunate  circumstance  of  his  being  little  and 
fat.  At  stiff  timber  he  shut  his  eyes  and  rode 
hard;  and  ten  yards  from  a  river  he  would  be- 
gin to  think  about  bridges. 

Yet  he  never  complained. 

"  If  you  are  a  country  gentleman,"  he  would 
say,  "  you  must  behave  as  a  country  gentleman, 
and  take  the  rough  with  the  smooth." 

As  ill-fate  would  have  it,  a  chance  specula- 
tion doubled  his  fortune;  and  it  became  neces- 
sary that  he  should  go  into  Parliament  and  start 
a  yacht.  Parliament  made  his  head  ache,  and 
the  yacht  made  him  sick.  Notwithstanding, 
every  summer  he  would  fill  it  with  a  lot  of  ex- 
pensive people,  who  bored  him,  and  sail  away 
for  a  month's  misery  in  the  Mediterranean. 

During  one  cruise  his  guests  built  up  a  highly 
interesting  gambling  scandal.  He  himself  was 


278      THE  MAN   WHO  LIVED  FOR  OTHERS. 

confined  to  his  cabin  at  the  time,  and  knew 
nothing  about  it;  but  the  Opposition  papers, 
getting  hold  of  the  story,  referred  usually  to 
the  yacht  as  a  "  floating  hell  ";  and  The  Police 
News  awarded  his  portrait  the  place  of  honor 
as  the  chief  criminal  of  the  week. 

Later  on  he  got  into  a  cultured  set,  ruled 
over  by  a  thick-lipped  undergraduate.  His 
favorite  literature  had  hitherto  been  of  the 
Corelli  and  Tit-Bits  order,  but  now  he  read 
Meredith  and  Punch,  and  tried  to  understand 
them;  and,  instead  of  the  Gaiety,  he  subscribed 
to  the  Independent  Theater,  and  "  fed  his  soul  " 
on  Dutch  Shaksperes. 

What  he  liked  in  art  was  a  pretty  girl  by  a 
cottage  door,  with  a  neligible  young  man  in  the 
background,  or  a  child  and  a  dog  doing  some- 
thing funny.  They  told  him  these  things  were 
wrong,  and  made  him  buy  "  Impressions  "  that 
stirred  his  liver  to  its  deepest  depths  every  time 
he  looked  at  them — green  cows  on  red  hills  by 
blue  moonlight,  or  scarlet-haired  corpses  with 
three  feet  of  neck. 

He  said,  meekly,  that  such  seemed  to  him  un- 
natural, but  they  answered  that  nature  had 


THE  MAN    WHO  LIVED  FOR   OTHERS.      279 

nothing  to  do  with  the  question;  that  the  artist 
saw  things  like  that,  and  whatever  an  artist  saw 
— no  matter  in  what  condition  he  may  have 
been  when  he  saw  it — that  was  art. 

They  took  him  to  Wagner  festivals  and 
Burne- Jones'  private  views.  They  read  him  all 
the  minor  poets.  They  booked  seats  for  him  at 
all  Ibsen's  plays.  They  introduced  him  into  all 
the  most  soulful  circles  of  artistic  society.  His 
days  were  one  long  feast  of  other  people's 
enjoyments. 

One  morning  I  met  him  coming  down  the 
steps  of  the  Arts  Club.  He  looked  weary.  He 
was  just  off  to  a  private  view  at  the  New  Gal- 
lery. In  the  afternoon  he  had  to  attend  an 
amateur  performance  of  "  The  Cenci,"  given  by 
the  Shelley  Society.  Then  followed  three  liter- 
ary and  artistic  At  Homes,  a  dinner  with  an 
Indian  nabob  who  couldn't  speak  a  word  of 
English,  "  Tristan  and  Isolde  "  at  Covent  Gar- 
den Theater,  and  a  ball  at  Lord  Salisbury's  to 
wind  up  the  day. 

I  laid  my  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  Come  with  me  to  Epping  Forest,"  I  said. 
"  There's  a  four-horse  break  starts  from  Char- 


280      THE  MAN    WHO  LIVED  FOR   OTHERS. 

ing  Cross  at  eleven.  It's  Saturday,  and  there's 
bound  to  be  a  crowd  down  there.  I'll  play  you 
a  game  of  skittles,  and  we  will  have  a  shy  at  the 
cocoanuts.  You  used  to  be  rather  smart  at 
cocoanuts.  We  can  have  lunch  there  and  be 
back  at  seven,  dine  at  the  Holborn,  spend  the 
evening  at  the  Empire,  and  sup  at  the  Savoy. 
What  do  you  say?  " 

He  stood  hesitating  on  the  steps,  a  wistful 
look  in  his  eyes. 

His  brougham  drew  up  against  the  curb,  and 
he  started  as  if  from  a  dream. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  he  replied,  "  what  would 
people  say?  "  and,  shaking  me  by  the  hand,  he 
took  his  seat,  and  the  footman  slammed  the 
door  upon  him. 


THE  MAN    OF    HABIT. 

[HERE  were  three  of  us  in  the  smoke 
room  of  the  Alexandra;  a  very  good 
friend  of  mine,   myself,   and,   in   the 
opposite  corner,  a  shy-looking,  unob- 
trusive man,    the   editor,   as   we   subsequently 
learned,  of  a  New  York  Sunday  paper. 

My  friend  and  I  were  discussing  habits,  good 
and  bad. 

"  After  the  first  few  months,"  said  my  friend. 
"  it  is  no  more  effort  for  a  man  to  be  a  saint  than 
to  be  a  sinner;  it  becomes  a  mere  matter  of 
habit." 

"  I  know,"  I  interrupted;  "  it  is  every  whit  as 
easy  to  spring  out  of  bed  the  instant  you  are 
called  as  to  say  '  All  right,'  and  turn  over  for 
just  another  five  minutes'  snooze — when  you 
have  got  in  the  way  of  it.  It  is  no  more 
trouble  not  to  swear  than  to  swear — if  you  make 
a  custom  of  it.  Toast  and  water  is  as  delicious 

as  champagne — when  you  have   acquired   the 

281 


282  THE  MAN  OF  HABIT. 

taste  for  it.  Things  are  also  just  as  easy  the 
other  way  about.  It  is  a  mere  question  of 
making  your  choice,  and  sticking  to  it." 

He  agreed  with  me. 

"  Now  take  these  cigars  of  mine,"  he  said, 
pushing  his  open  case  toward  me. 

"  Thank  you,"  I  replied  hurriedly;  "  I'm  not 
smoking  this  passage." 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,"  he  answered.  ''  I  meant 
merely  as  an  argument.  Now  one  of  these 
would  make  you  wretched  for  a  week." 

I  admitted  his  premise. 

"  Very  well,"  he  continued.  "  Now  /,  as  you 
know,  smoke  them  all  day  long,  and  enjoy  them. 
Why?  Because  I  have  got  into  the  habit. 
Years  ago,  when  I  was  a  young  man,  I  smoked 
expensive  Havanas.  I  found  that  I  was  ruining 
myself.  It  was  absolutely  necessary  that  I 
should  take  to  a  cheaper  weed.  I  was  living  in 
Belgium  at  the  time,  and  a  friend  showed  me 
these.  I  don't  know  what  they  are — probably 
cabbage  leaves  soaked  in  guano;  they  tasted  to 
me  like  that  at  first — but  they  were  cheap. 
Buying  them  by  the  five  hundred,  they  cost  me 
three  a  penny.  I  determined  to  like  them,  and 


THE  MAN  OF  HABIT.  283 

started  with  one  a  day.  It  was  terrible  work, 
I  admit,  but,  as  I  said  to  myself,  nothing  could 
be  worse  than  had  been  the  Havanas  them- 
selves in  the  beginning.  Smoking  is  an  ac- 
quired taste,  and  it  must  be  as  easy  to  learn  to 
like  one  flavor  as  another.  I  persevered  and  I 
conquered.  Before  the  year  was  over  I  could 
think  of  them  without  loathing,  at  the  end  of 
two  I  could  smoke  them  without  positive  dis- 
comfort. Now  I  prefer  them  to  any  other 
brand  on  the  market.  Indeed,  a  good  cigar  dis- 
agrees with  me." 

I  suggested  it  might  have  been  less  painful  to 
have  given  up  smoking  altogether. 

"  I  did  think  of  it,"  he  replied.  "  But  a 
man  who  doesn't  smoke  always  seems  to  me 
bad  company.  There  is  something  very  soci- 
able about  smoke." 

He  leaned  back  and  puffed  great  clouds  into 
the  air,  filling  the  small  den  with  an  odor  sug- 
gestive of  bilge  water  and  cemeteries. 

"  Then  again,"  he  resumed,  after  a  pause, 
"  take  my  claret.  No,  you  don't  like  it."  (I 
had  not  spoken,  but  my  face  had  evidently  be- 
trayed me.)  "  Nobody  does — at  least,  no  one  I 


284  THE  MAN  OF  HABIT. 

have  ever  met.  Three  years  ago,  when  I  was 
living  in  Hammersmith,  we  caught  two  bur- 
glars with  it.  They  broke  open  the  sideboard, 
and  swallowed  five  bottles  full  between  them. 
A  policeman  found  them  afterward,  sitting  on  a 
doorstep  a  hundred  yards  off,  the  '  swag  '  beside 
them  in  a  carpet  bag.  They  were  too  ill  to 
offer  any  resistance,  and  went  to  the  station  like 
lambs,  he  promising  to  send  the  doctor  to  them 
the  moment  they  were  safe  in  the  cells.  Ever 
since  then  I  have  left  out  a  decanter  full  upon 
the  table  every  night. 

"  Well,  I  like  that  claret,  and  it  does  me  good. 
I  come  in  sometimes  dead  beat.  I  drink  a 
couple  of  glasses,  and  I'm  a  new  man.  I  took 
to  it,  in  the  first  instance,  for  the  same  reason 
that  I  took  to  the  cigars — it  was  cheap.  I  have 
it  sent  over  direct  from  Geneva,  and  it  cost  me 
six  shillings  a  dozen.  How  they  do  it  I  don't 
know.  I  don't  want  to  know.  As  you  may 
remember,  it's  fairly  heady,  and  there's  body 
in  it. 

"  I  knew  one  man,"  he  continued,  "  who  had 
a  regular  Mrs.  Caudle  of  a  wife.  All  day  long 
she  talked  to  him,  or  at  him,  or  of  him,  and  at 


THE  MAN  OF  HABIT.  285 

night  he  fell  asleep  to  the  rising  and  falling 
rhythm  of  what  she  thought  about  him.  At 
last  she  died,  and  his  friends  congratulated  him, 
telling  him  that  now  he  would  enjoy  peace. 
But  it  was  the  peace  of  the  desert,  and  the  man 
did  not  enjoy  it.  For  two-and-twenty  years 
her  voice  had  filled  the  house,  penetrated 
through  the  conservatory,  and  floated  in  faint, 
shrilly  waves  of  sound  round  the  garden,  and  out 
into  the  road  beyond.  The  silence  now  pervad- 
ing everywhere  frightened  and  disturbed  him. 
The  place  was  no  longer  home  to  him.  He 
missed  the  breezy  morning  insult,  the  long 
winter  evening's  reproaches  beside  the  flickering 
fire.  At  night  he  could  not  sleep.  For  hours 
he  would  lie  tossing  restlessly,  his  ears  aching 
for  the  accustomed  soothing  flow  of  invective. 

"  '  Ah!  '  he  would  cry  bitterly  to  himself,  '  it 
is  the  old  story,  we  never  know  the  value  of  a 
thing  until  we  have  lost  it.' 

"  He  grew  ill.  The  doctors  dosed  him  with 
sleeping  draughts  in  vain.  At  last  they  told 
him  bluntly  that  his  life  depended  upon  his  find- 
ing another  wife,  able  and  willing  to  nag  him  to 
sleep. 


286  THE  MAN  OF  HABIT. 

"  There  were  plenty  of  wives  of  the  type  he 
wanted  in  the  neighborhood,  but  the  unmarried 
women  were,  of  necessity,  inexperienced,  and 
his  health  was  such  that  he  could  not  afford 
the  time  to  train  them. 

"  Fortunately,  just  as  despair  was  about  to 
take  possession  of  him,  a  man  died  in  the  next 
parish,  literally  talked  to  death,  the  gossips  said, 
by  his  wife.  He  obtained  an  introduction,  and 
called  upon  her  the  day  after  the  funeral.  She 
was  a  cantankerous  old  woman,  and  the  wooing 
was  a  harassing  affair,  but  his  heart  was  in  his 
work,  and  before  six  months  were  gone  he  had 
won  her  for  his  own. 

"  She  proved,  however,  but  a  poor  substitute. 
The  spirit  was  willing  but  the  flesh  was-  weak. 
She  had  neither  that  command  of  language  nor 
of  wind  that  had  distinguished  her  rival.  From 
his  favorite  seat  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden  he 
could  not  hear  all,  so  he  had  his  chair  brought 
up  into  the  conservatory.  It  was  all  right  for 
him  there  so  long  as  she  continued  to  abuse 
him;  but  every  now  and  again,  just  as  he  was 
getting  comfortably  settled  down  with  his  pipe 
and  his  newspaper,  she  would  suddenly  stop. 


THE  MAN  OF  HABIT.  287 

He  would  drop  his  paper,  and  sit  listening 
with  a  troubled,  anxious  expression. 

'  Are  you  there,  dear?  '  he  would  call  out, 
after  a  while. 

"  '  Yes,  I'm  here.  Where  do  you  think  I  am, 
you  old  fool? '  she  would  gasp  back  in  an  ex- 
hausted voice. 

"  His  face  would  brighten  at  the  sound  of  her 
words.  '  Go  on,  dear,'  he  would  answer.  '  I'm 
listening.  I  like  to  hear  you  talk.' 

"  But  the  poor  woman  was  utterly  pumped 
out,  and  had  not  so  much  as  a  snort  left. 

"  Then  he  would  shake  his  head  sadly.  '  No; 
she  hasn't  poor  dear  Susan's  flow,'  he  would 
say.  '  Ah !  what  a  woman  that  was ! ' 

"  At  night  she  would  do  her  best,  but  it  was  a 
lame  and  halting  performance  by  comparison. 
After  rating  him  for  little  over  three-quarters 
of  an  hour  she  would  sink  back  upon  the  pillow 
and  want  to  go  to  sleep.  But  he  would  shake 
her  gently  by  the  shoulder. 

"  '  Yes,  dear,'  he  would  say;  '  you  were  speak- 
ing about  Jane,  and  the  way  I  kept  looking  at 
her  during  lunch.' 

"  It's  extraordinary,"   concluded  my  friend, 


288  THE  MAN  OF  HABIT. 

lighting  a  fresh  cigar,  "  what  creatures  of  habit 
we  are." 

"  Very,"  I  replied;  "  I  knew  a  man  who  told 
tall  stories  till  when  he  told  a  true  one  nobody 
believed  it." 

"  Ah,  that  was  a  very  sad  case,"  said  my 
friend. 

"  Speaking  of  habit,"  said  the  unobtrusive 
man  in  the  corner,  "  I  can  tell  you  a  true  story 
that  I'll  bet  my  bottom  dollar  you  won't 
believe." 

"  Haven't  got  a  bottom  dollar,  but  I'll  bet 
you  half  a  sovereign  I  do,"  replied  my  friend, 
who  was  of  a  sporting  turn.  "  Who  shall  be 
judge? " 

"  I'll  take  your  word  for  it,"  said  the  unobtru- 
sive man,  and  started  straight  away. 

"  He  was  a  Jefferson  man,  this  man  I'm  going 
to  tell  you  of,"  he  began.  "  He  was  born  in  the 
town,  and  for  forty-seven  years  he  never  slept  a 
night  outside  of  it.  He  was  a  most  respectable 
man — a  drysalter  from  nine  to  four,  and  a 
Presbyterian  in  his  leisure  moments.  He  said 
that  a  good  life  merely  meant  good  habits.  He 


THE  MAN  OF  HABIT.  289 

rose  at  seven,  had  family  prayers  at  seven-thirty, 
breakfasted  at  eight,  got  to  his  business  at  nine, 
had  his  horse  brought  round  to  the  office  at 
four,  and  rode  for  an  hour,  reached  home  at  five, 
had  a  bath  and  a  cup  of  tea,  played  with  and 
read  to  the  children  (he  was  a  domesticated 
man)  till  half-past  six,  dressed  and  dined  at 
seven,  went  round  to  the  club  and  played  whist 
till  quarter  after  ten,  home  again  to  evening 
prayer  at  ten-thirty,  and  bed  at  eleven.  For 
fi  ve-and-twenty  years  he  had  lived  that  life  with 
never  a  variation.  It  worked  into  his  system 
and  became  mechanical.  The  church  clocks 
were  set  by  him.  He  was  used  by  the  local 
astronomers  to  check  the  sun. 

"  One  day  a  distant  connection  of  his  in  Lon- 
don, an  East  Indian  merchant,  and  an  ex-Lord 
Mayor,  died,  leaving  him  sole  legatee  and 
executor.  The  business  was  a  complicated  one 
and  needed  management.  He  determined  to 
leave  his  son  by  his  first  wife,  now  a  young  man 
of  twenty-four,  in  charge  at  Jefferson,  and  to 
establish  himself  with  his  second  family  in 
England  and  look  after  the  East  Indian 
business. 


290  THE  MAN  OF  HABIT. 

"  He  set  out  from  Jefferson  city  on  October 
the  fourth,  and  arrived  in  London  on  the  seven- 
teenth. He  had  been  ill  during  the  whole  of  the 
voyage;  and  he  reached  the  furnished  house  he 
had  hired  in  Bayswater  somewhat  of  a  wreck. 
A  couple  of  days  in  bed,  however,  pulled  him 
round,  and  on  the  Wednesday  evening  he  an- 
nounced his  intention  of  going  into  the  city  the 
next  day  to  see  to  his  affairs. 

"  On  the  Thursday  morning  he  awoke  at  one 
o'clock.  His  wife  told  him  she  had  not  dis- 
turbed him,  thinking  the  sleep  would  do  him 
good.  He  admitted  that  perhaps  it  had.  Any- 
how, he  felt  very  well;  and  he  got  up  and 
dressed  himself.  He  said  he  did  not  like  the 
idea  of  beginning  his  first  day  by  neglecting  a 
religious  duty,  and,  his  wife  agreeing  with  him, 
they  assembled  the  servants  and  the  children  in 
the  dining  room,  and  had  family  prayers  at  half- 
past  one;  after  which  he  breakfasted  and  set  off, 
reaching  the  city  about  three. 

"  His  reputation  for  punctuality  had  preceded 
him,  and  surprise  was  everywhere  expressed  at 
his  late  arrival.  He  explained  the  circum- 
stances, however,  and  made  his  appointments 


THE  MAN  OF  HABIT.  291 

for  the  following  day  to  commence  from  nine- 
thirty. 

"  He  remained  at  the  office  until  late,  and 
then  went  home.  For  dinner — usually  his  chief 
meal  of  the  day — he  could  manage  to  eat  only  a 
biscuit  and  some  fruit.  He  attributed  his  loss 
of  appetite  to  want  of  his  customary  ride.  He 
was  strangely  unsettled  all  the  evening.  He 
said  he  supposed  he  missed  his  game  of 
whist,  and  determined  to  look  about  him, 
without  loss  of  time,  for  some  quiet,  respect- 
able club.  At  eleven  he  retired  with  his 
wife  to  bed,  but  could  not  sleep.  He  tossed 
and  turned,  and  turned  and  tossed,  but  grew 
only  more  and  more  wakeful  and  energetic. 
A  little  after  midnight  an  overpowering  desire 
seized  him  to  go  and  wish  the  children  good- 
night. He  slipped  on  a  dressing-gown,  and 
stole  into  the  nursery.  He  did  not  intend  it, 
but  the  opening  of  the  door  awoke  them,  and  he 
was  glad.  He  wrapped  them  up  in  the  quilt, 
and,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  told  them 
moral  stories  till  one  o'clock. 

"  Then  he  kissed  them,  bidding  them  be  good 
and  go  to  sleep;  and,  finding  himself  painfully 


2  92  THE  MAN  OF  HABIT. 

hungry,  crept  downstairs,  where,  in  the  back 
kitchen,  he  made  a  hearty  meal  off  cold  game 
pie  and  cucumber. 

"  He  returned  to  bed,  feeling  more  peaceful, 
yet  still  could  not  sleep,  so  lay  thinking  about 
his  business  affairs  till  five,  when  he  dropped  off. 

"  At  one  o'clock  to  the  minute  he  awoke. 
His  wife  told  him  she  had  made  every  endeavor 
to  rouse  him,  but  in  vain.  The  man  was  vexed 
and  irritated.  If  he  had  not  been  a  very  good 
man  indeed,  I  believe  he  would  have  sworn. 
The  same  programme  was  repeated  as  on  the 
Thursday,  and  again  he  reached  the  city  at 
three. 

"  This  state  of  things  went  on  for  a  month. 
The  man  fought  against  himself,  but  was  unable 
to  alter  himself.  Every  morning — or  rather 
every  afternoon — at  one  he  awoke.  Every  night 
at  one  he  crept  down  into  the  kitchen  and 
foraged  for  food.  Every  morning  Lt  five  he  fell 
asleep. 

"  He  could  not  understand  it,  nobody  could 
understand  it.  The  doctor  treated  him  for 
water  on  the  brain,  hypnotic  irresponsibility,  and 
hereditary  lunacy.  Meanwhile  his  business  suf- 


r 


THE  MAN  OF  HABIT.  293 

fered,  and  his  health  grew  worse.  He  seemed 
to  be  living  upside  down.  His  days  seemed  to 
have  neither  beginning  nor  end,  but  to  be  all 
middle.  There  was  no  time  for  exercise  or  rec- 
reation. When  he  began  to  feel  cheerful  and 
sociable  everybody  else  was  asleep. 

"  One  day,  by  chance,  the  explanation  came. 
His  eldest  daughter  was  preparing  her  home 
studies  after  dinner. 

"  '  What  time  is  it  now  in  New  York? '  she 
asked,  looking  up  from  her  geography  book. 

"  '  New  York,'  said  her  father,  glancing  at  his 
watch;  Met  me  see.  It's  just  ten  now,  and 
there's  a  little  over  four  and  a  half  hour's  differ- 
ence. Oh,  about  half-past  five  in  the  after- 
noon.' 

'  Then  in  Jefferson,'  said  the  mother,  '  it 
would  be  still  earlier,  wouldn't  it?  ' 

'  Yes,'  replied  the  girl,  examining  the  map, 
*  Jefferson  is  nearly  two  degrees  further  west/ 

'  Two  degrees,'  mused  the  father;  '  and 
there's  forty  minutes  to  a  degree.  That  would 
make  it  now,  at  the  present  moment  in 
Jefferson — 

"  He  leaped  to  his  feet  with  a  cry: 


294  THE  MAN  OF  HABIT. 

"  '  I've  got  it  '  he  shouted;  '  I  see  it! ' 

"  '  See  what?  '  asked  his  wife,  alarmed. 

"  '  Why,  it's  four  o'clock  in  Jefferson,  and 
just  time  for  my  ride.  That's  what  I'm 
wanting.' 

"There  could  be  no  doubt  about  it.  For  five- 
and-twenty  years  he  had  lived  by  clockwork. 
But  it  was  by  Jefferson  clockwork,  not  London 
clockwork.  He  had  changed  his  longitude; 
but  not  himself.  The  habits  of  a  quarter  of  a 
century  were  not  to  be  shifted  at  the  bidding  of 
the  sun. 

"  He  examined  the  problem  in  all  its  bear- 
ings, and  decided  that  the  only  solution  was  for 
him  to  return  to  the  order  of  his  old  life.  He 
saw  the  difficulties  in  his  way,  but  they  were  less 
than  those  he  was  at  present  encountering. 
He  was  too  formed  by  habit  to  adapt  himself 
to  circumstances.  Circumstances  must  adapt 
themselves  to  him. 

"  He  fixed  his  office  hours  from  three  to  ten, 
leaving  himself  at  half-past  nine.  At  ten  he 
mounted  his  horse,  and  went  for  a  canter  in  the 
Row,  and  on  very  dark  nights  he  carried  a  Ian- 


THE  MAN  OF  HABIT.  295 

tern.  News  of  it  got  abroad,  and  crowds  would 
assemble  to  see  him  ride  past. 

"  He  dined  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
and  afterward  strolled  down  to  his  club.  He 
had  tried  to  discover  a  quiet,  respectable  club 
where  the  members  were  willing  to  play  whist 
till  four  in  the  morning,  but,  failing,  had  been 
compelled  to  join  a  small  Soho  gambling-hell, 
where  they  taught  him  poker.  The  place  was 
occasionally  raided  by  the  police,  but,  thanks  to 
his  respectable  appearance,  he  generally  man- 
aged to  escape. 

"  At  half-past  four  he  returned  home,  and 
woke  the  family  for  evening  prayers.  At  five 
he  went  to  bed  and  slept  like  a  top. 

"  The  city  chaffed  him,  and  Bayswater  shook 
its  head  over  him,  but  that  he  did  not  mind. 
The  only  thing  that  really  troubled  him  was  loss 
of  spiritual  communion.  At  five  o'clock  on 
Sunday  afternoons  he  felt  he  wanted  chapel,  but 
had  to  do  without  it.  At  seven  he  ate  his 
simple  midday  meal.  At  eleven  he  had  tea  and 
muffins,  and  at  midnight  began  to  cravev»gain 
for  hymns  and  sermons.  At  three  he  had  a 


296  THE  MAN  OF  HABIT. 

bread-and-cheese  supper,  and  retired  early  at 
4  a.  m.,  feeling  sad  and  unsatisfied. 
"  He  was  essentially  a  man  of  habit." 

The  unobtrusive  stranger  ceased,  and  we  sat 
gazing  in  silence  at  the  ceiling. 

At  length  my  friend  rose,  and,  taking  half  a, 
sovereign  from  his  pocket,  laid  it  upon  the  table, 
and  linking  his  arm  in  mine  went  out  with  me 
upon  the  deck. 


THE  ABSENT-MINDED   MAN. 

OU  ask  him  to  dine  with  you  on 
Thursday  to  meet  a  few  people  who 
are  anxious  to  know  him. 

"  Now  don't  make  a  muddle  of  it," 
you  say,  recollectful  of  former  mishaps,  "  and 
come  on  the  Wednesday." 

He  laughs  good-naturedly  as  he  hunts 
through  the  room  for  his  diary. 

"Shan't  be  able  to  come  Wednesday,"  he  says; 
"  shall  be  at  the  Mansion  House  sketching 
dresses,  and  on  Friday  I  start  for  Scotland,  so  as 
to  be  at  the  opening  of  the  Exhibition  on 
Saturday;  it's  bound  to  be  all  right  this  time. 
Where  the  deuce  is  that  diary!  Never  mind; 
I'll  make  a  note  of  it  on  this — you  can  see  me 
do  it." 

You  stand  over  him  while  he  writes  the  ap- 
pointment down  on  a  sheet  of  foolscap,  and 
watch  him  pin  it  up  over  his  desk.  Then  you 
come  away  contented. 


298  THE  ABSENT-MINDED  MAN. 

"  I  do  hope  he'll  turn  up,"  you  say  to  your 
wife  on  the  Thursday  evening,  while  dressing. 

"Are  you  sure  you  made  it  clear  to  him?  " 
she  replies  suspiciously;  and  you  instinctively 
feel  that  whatever  happens  she  is  going  to  blame 
you  for  it. 

Eight  o'clock  arrives,  and,  with  it,  the  other 
guests.  At  half-past  eight  your  wife  is  beck- 
oned mysteriously  out  of  the  room,  where  the 
parlor  maid  informs  her  that  the  cook  has  ex- 
pressed a  determination,  in  case  of  further  delay, 
to  wash  her  hands,  figuratively  speaking,  of  the 
whole  affair. 

Your  wife  returning,  suggests  that  if  the 
dinner  is  to  be  eaten  at  all,  it  had  better  be 
begun.  She  evidently  considers  that  in  pre- 
tending to  expect  him  you  have  been  merely 
playing  a  part,  and  that  it  would  have  been 
manlier  and  more  straightforward  for  you  to 
have  admitted  at  the  beginning  that  you  had 
forgotten  to  invite  him. 

During  the  soup  and  the  fish  you  recount 
anecdotes  of  his  unpunctuality.  By  the  time 
the  entree  arrives,  the  empty  chair  has  begun  to 
cast  a  gloom  over  the  dinner,  and,  with  the  joint, 


THE  ABSENT-MINDED  MAN.  299 

the  conversation   drifts  into   talk   about   dead 
relatives. 

On  Friday,  at  a  quarter  past  eight,  he 
dashes  to  the  door  and  rings  violently. 
Hearing  his  voice  in  the  hall,  you  go  to  meet 
him. 

"  Sorry  I'm  late,"  he  sings  out  cheerily;  "  fool 
of  a  cabman  took  me  to  Alfred  Place  instead 
of " 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want  now  you  are 
come? "  you  interrupt,  feeling  anything  but 
genially  inclined  toward  him.  He  is  an  old 
friend,  so  you  can  be  rude  to  him. 

He  laughs,  and  slaps  you  on  the  shoulder. 

"Why,  my  dinner,  my  dear  boy;  I'm 
starving." 

"  Oh,"  you  grunt  in  reply.  "  Well,  you  go 
and  get  it  somewhere  else,  then.  You're  not 
going  to  have  it  here." 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean?"  he  says; 
"  you  asked  me  here  to  dinner." 

"  I  did  nothing  of  the  kind,"  you  tell  him. 
"  I  asked  you  to  dinner  on  Thursday — not  on 
Friday." 

He  stares  at  you  incredulously. 


300  THE  ABSENT-MINDED  MAN. 

"  How  did  I  get  Friday  fixed  in  my  mind?  " 
he  asks  inquiringly. 

"  Because  yours  is  the  sort  of  mind  that  would 
get  Friday  firmly  fixed  into  it  when  Thursday 
was  the  day,"  you  explain.  "  I  thought  you 
had  to  be  off  to  Edinburgh  to-night,"  you 
add. 

"  Great  Scott!  "  he  cries,  "  so  I  have."  And 
without  another  word  he  dashes  out,  and  you 
hear  him  rushing  down  the  road  shouting  for 
the  cab  he  has  just  dismissed. 

As  you  return  to  your  study  you  reflect  that 
he  will  have  to  travel  all  the  way  to  Scotland  in 
evening  dress,  and  will  have  to  send  out  the 
hotel  porter  in  the  morning  to  buy  him  a  suit  of 
ready-made  clothes,  and  are  glad. 

Matters  work  out  still  more  awkwardly  when 
it  is  he  who  is  the  host.  I  remember  being  with 
him  on  his  houseboat  one  day.  It  was  a  little 
after  twelve,  and  we  were  sitting  on  the  edge  of 
the  boat  dangling  our  feet  in  the  river;  the  spot 
was  a  lonely  one,  halfway  between  Wallingford 
and  Day's  Lock.  Suddenly  round  the  bend  ap- 
peared two  skiffs,  each  one  containing  six  elab- 
orately dressed  persons.  As  soon  as  they 


THE  ABSENT-MINDED  MAN. 


301 


caught  sight  of  us  they  began  waving  handker- 
chiefs and  parasols. 

"  Hullo!  "  I  said,  "  here's  some  people  hailing 
you." 

JK 


"Here's  some  people  hailing  you." 

"Oh!  they  all  do  that  about  here,"  he  an- 
swered, without  looking  up;  "  some  beanfeast 
from  Abingdon,  I  expect." 

The  boats  draw  nearer.  When  about  two 
hundred  yards  off,  an  elderly  gentleman  raised 


302  THE  ABSENT-MINDED  MAN. 

himself  up  in  the  prow  of  the  leading  one  and 
shouted  to  us. 

McQuae  heard  his  voice,  and  gave  a  start  that 
all  but  pitched  him  into  the  water. 

"  Good  God!  "  he  cried;  "  I'd  forgotten  all 
about  it." 

"About  what?"  I  asked. 

"  Why,  it's  the  Palmers,  ^and  the  Grahams, 
and  the  Hendersons.  I've  asked  them  all  over 
to  lunch,  and  there's  not  a  blessed  thing  on 
board  but  two  mutton  chops  and  a  pound  of 
potatoes,  and  I've  given  the  boy  a  holiday." 

Another  day  I  was  lunching  with  him  at  the 
Junior  Hogarth,  when  a  man  named  Hallyard, 
a  mutual  friend,  strolled  across  to  us. 

"  What  are  you  fellows  going  to  do  this  after- 
noon?" he  asked,  seating  himself  the  opposite 
side  of  the  table. 

"  I'm  going  to  stop  here  and  write  letters,"  I 
answered. 

"  Come  with  me  if  you  want  something  to 
do,"  said  McQuae.  "  I'm  going  to  drive  Leena 
down  to  Richmond."  ("  Leena  "  was  the  young 
lady  he  recollected  being  engaged  to.  It  trans- 
pired afterward  that  he  was  engaged  to  three 


THE  ABSENT-MINDED  MAN.  3°3 

girls  at  the  time.  The  other  two  he  had  forgot- 
ten all  about.)  "  It's  a  roomy  seat  at  the  back." 

"  Oh,  all  right !  "  said  Hallyard,  and  they  went 
away  together  in  a  hansom. 

An  hour  and  a  half  later  Hallyard  walked  into 
the  smoking  room,  looking  depressed  and  worn, 
and  flung  himself  into  a  chair. 

"  I  thought  you  were  going  to  Richmond 
with  McQuae,"  I  said. 

"  So  did  I,"  he  answered. 

"  Had  an  accident?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes."    He  was  decidedly  curt  in  his  replies. 

"  Cart  upset?  "  I  continued. 

"  No— only  me." 

His  grammar  and  his  nerves  seemed  thor- 
oughly shaken. 

I  waited  for  an  explanation,  and  after  a  while 
he  gave  it. 

"  We  got  to  Putney,"  he  said,  "  with  just  an 
occasional  run  into  a  tram-car,  and  were  going 
up  the  hill  when  suddenly  he  turned  a  corner. 
You  know  his  style  at  a  corner — over  the  curb, 
across  the  road,  and  into  the  opposite  lamp- 
post. Of  course,  as  a  rule,  one  is  prepared  for 
it,  but  I  never  reckoned  on  his  turning  up  there, 


3°4 


THE   ABSENT-MINDED  MAN. 


and  the  first  thing  I  recollect  is  finding  myself 
sitting  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  with  a  dozen 
fools  grinning  at  me. 

"  It  takes  a  man  a  few  minutes  in  such  a 
case  to  think  where  he  is  and  what  has  hap- 


"  You  know  his  style  at  a  corner." 

pened,  and  when  I  got  up  they  were  some  dis- 
tance away.  I  ran  after  them  for  a  quarter  of  a 
mile,  shouting  at  the  top  of  my  voice,  and  ac- 
companied by  a  mob  of  boys,  all  yelling  like  hell 
on  a  bank  holiday.  But  one  might  as  well  have 
tried  to  hail  the  dead,  so  I  took  the  'bus  back. 

"  They  might  have  guessed  what  had  hap- 
pened," he  added,  "  by  the  shifting  of  the  cart, 
if  they'd  had  any  sense.  I'm  not  a  lightweight." 

He  complained  of  soreness,  and  said  he  would 


THE  ABSENT-MINDED  MAN.  305 

go  home.  I  suggested  a  cab,  but  he  replied  that 
he  would  rather  walk. 

I  met  McQuae  in  the  evening  at  the  St.  James 
Theater.  It  was  a  first  night,  and  he  was  taking 
sketches  for  the  Graphic.  The  moment  he  saw 
me  he  made  his  way  across  to  me. 

"The  very  man  I  wanted  to  see,"  he  said; 
"  did  I  take  Hallyard  with  me  in  the  cart  to 
Richmond  this  afternoon?  " 

"  You  did,"  I  replied. 

"  So  Leena  says,"  he  answered,  greatly  be- 
wildered; "  but  I'll  swear  he  wasn't  there  when 
we  got  to  the  Queen's  Hotel." 

"  It's  all  right,"  I  said;  "  you  dropped  him  at 
Putney." 

"Dropped  him  at  Putney!"  he  repeated; 
"  I've  no  recollection  of  doing  so." 

"  He  has,"  I  answered.  "  You  ask  him  about 
it.  He's  full  of  it." 

Everybody  said  he  never  would  get  married; 
that  it  was  absurd  to  suppose  he  would  ever  re- 
member the  day,  the  church,  and  the  girl  all  in 
one  morning;  that  if  he  did  get  as  far  as  the 
altar  he  would  forget  what  he  had  come  for, 
and  would  give  the  bride  away  to  his  own  best 


306  THE  ABSENT-MINDED  MAN. 

man.  Hallyard  had  an  idea  that  he  was  already 
married,  but  that  the  fact  had  slipped  his 
memory.  I  myself  felt  sure  that  if  he  did  marry 
he  would  forget  all  about  it  the  next  day. 

But  everybody  was  wrong.  By  some  miracu- 
lous means  the  ceremony  got  itself  accom- 
plished; so  that,  if  Kailyard's  idea  be  correct 
(as  to  which  there  is  every  possibility),  there  will 
be  trouble.  As  for  my  own  fears,  I  dismissed 
them  the  moment  I  saw  the  lady.  She  was  a 
charming,  cheerful  little  woman,  but  did  not 
look  the  type  that  would  let  him  forget  all 
about  it. 

I  had  not  seen  him  since  his  marriage,  which 
had  happened  in  the  spring.  Working  my  way 
back  from  Scotland  by  easy  stages,  I  stopped 
for  a  few  days  at  Scarboro'.  After  table  d'hote 
I  put  on  my  mackintosh  and  went  out  for  a 
walk.  It  was  raining  hard,  but  after  a  month 
in  Scotland  one  does  not  notice  English 
weather,  and  I  wanted  some  air.  Struggling 
along  the  dark  beach,  with  my  head  against  the 
wind,  I  stumbled  over  a  crouching  figure  that 
was  seeking  to  shelter  itself  a  little  from  the 
storm  under  the  lee  of  the  Spa  wall. 


THE  ABSENT-MINDED  MAN.  3°7 

I  expected  it  to  swear  at  me,  but  it  seemed 
too  broken  spirited  to  mind  anything. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  said.  "  I  did  not  see 
you." 

At  the  sound  of  my  voice  it  started  to  its  feet. 
"  Is  that  you,  old  man?  "  it  cried. 

"  McQuae!  "  I  exclaimed. 

"  By  Jove!  "  he  said;  "  I  was  never  so  glad  to 
see  a  man  in  all  my  life  before."  And  he  nearly 
shook  my  hand  off. 

"  But,  what  in  thunder,"  I  said,  "  are  you 
doing  here?  Why,  you're  drenched  to  the  skin." 

He  was  dressed  in  flannels  and  a  tennis  coat. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  "  I  never  thought  it 
would  rain.  It  was  a  lovely  morning." 

I  began  to  fear  he  had  overworked  himself 
into  a  brain  fever. 

"  Why  don't  you  go  home?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  can't,"  he  replied.  "  I  don't  know  where 
I  live.  I've  forgotten  the  address.  For 
Heaven's  sake,"  he  said,  "  take  me  somewhere, 
and  give  me  something  to  eat.  I'm  literally 
starving." 

"  Haven't  you  any  money?  "  I  asked  him,  as 
we  turned  toward  the  hotel. 


308 


THE  ABSENT-MI\'DED  MAN. 


"  Not  a  sou,"  he  answered.  "  We  got  in  here 
from  York,  the  wife  and  I,  about  eleven.  We 
left  our  things  at  the  station,  and  started  to 


"  Why  don't  you  go  home  ? " 

hunt  for  apartments.  As  soon  as  we  were  fixed 
I  changed  my  clothes  and  came  out  for  a  walk, 
telling  Maud  I  should  be  back  at  one  to  lunch. 
Like  a  fool,  I  never  took  the  address,  and  never 
noticed  the  way  I  was  going. 


THE  ABSENT-MINDED  MAN.  309 

"  It's  an  awful  business,"  he  continued.  "  I 
don't  see  how  I'm  ever  going  to  find  her.  I 
hoped  she  might  stroll  down  to  the  Spa  in  the 
evening,  and  I've  been  hanging  about  the  gates 
ever  since  six.  I  hadn't  the  threepence  to 
go  in." 

"  But  have  you  no  notion  of  the  sort  of  street 
or  the  kind  of  house  it  was?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Not  a  ghost,"  he  replied.  "  I  left  it  all  to 
Maud,  and  didn't  trouble." 

"  Have  you  tried  any  of  the  lodging-houses?  " 
I  asked. 

"  Tried!  "  he  exclaimed  bitterly.  "  I've  been 
knocking  at  doors,  and  asking  if  Mrs.  McQuae 
lives  there,  steadily  all  the  afternoon,  and  they 
slam  the  door  in  my  face  mostly,  without  an- 
swering. I  told  a  policeman — I  thought  per- 
haps he  might  suggest  something;  but  the  idiot 
only  burst  out  laughing,  and  that  made  me  so 
mad  that  I  gave  him  a  black  eye,  and  had  to  cut. 
I  expect  they're  on  the  lookout  for  me  now. 

"  I  went  into  a  restaurant,"  he  continued 
gloomily,  "  and  tried  to  get  them  to  trust  me 
for  a  steak.  But  the  proprietress  said  she'd 
heard  that  tale  before,  and  ordered  me  out  be- 


310  THE  ABSENT-MINDED  MAN. 

fore  all  the  other  customers.  I  think  I'd  have 
drowned  myself  if  you  hadn't  turned  up." 

After  a  change  of  clothes  and  some  supper 
he  discussed  the  case  more  calmly,  but  it  was 
really  a  serious  affair.  They  had  shut  up  their 
flat,  and  his  wife's  relatives  were  traveling 
abroad.  There  was  no  one  to  whom  he  could 
send  a  letter  to  be  forwarded;  there  was  no  one 
with  whom  she  would  be  likely  to  communicate. 
Their  chances  of  meeting  again  in  this  world 
appeared  remote. 

Nor  did  it  seem  to  me — fond  as  he  was  of  his 
wife,  and  anxious  as  he  undoubtedly  was  to  re- 
cover her — that  he  looked  forward  to  the  actual 
meeting,  should  it  ever  arrive,  with  any  too 
pleasurable  anticipation. 

"  She  will  think  it  strange,"  he  murmured  re- 
flectively, sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and 
thoughtfully  pulling  off  his  socks.  "  She  is  sure 
to  think  it  strange." 

The  following  day,  which  was  Wednesday, 
we  went  to  a  solicitor  and  laid  the  case  before 
him;  and  he  instituted  inquiries  among  all  the 
lodging-house  keepers  in  Scarborough,  with 
the  result  that  on  Thursdav  afternoon  McOuae 


THE  ABSENT-MINDED  MAN.  311 

was  restored  (after  the  manner  of  an  Adelphi 
hero  in  the  last  act)  to  his  home  and  wife. 

I  asked  him  next  time  I  met  him  what  she 
had  said. 

"Oh,  much  what  I  expected!"  he  replied. 
But  he  never  told  me  what  he  had  expected. 


A  CHARMING  WOMAN. 

OT  the  Mr. ,  really?  " 

In    her    deep    brown    eyes    there 
lurked    pleased    surprise,    struggling 
with  wonder.     She  looked  from  my- 
self to  the  friend  who  had  introduced  us  with  a 
bewitching  smile  of  incredulity,   tempered  by 
hope. 

He  assured  her,  adding  laughingly:  "The 
only  genuine  and  original,"  and  left  us. 

"  I've  always  thought  of  you  as  a  staid,  mid- 
dle-aged man,"  she  said,  with  a  delicious  little 
laugh;  then  added,  in  low,  soft  tones:  "  I'm  so 
very  pleased  to  meet  you,  really." 

The  words  were  conventional,  but  her  voice 
crept  round  one  like  a  warm  caress. 

"  Come  and  talk  to  me,"  she  said,  seating  her- 
self upon  a  small  settee,  and  making  room  for 
me. 

I   sat   down   awkwardly  beside  her,  my  head 
buzzing  just  a  little,  as  with  one  glass  too  many 
312 


A    CHARMING    WOMAN.  313 

of  champagne.  I  was  in  my  literary  childhood. 
One  small  book,  and  a  few  essays  and  criticisms 
scattered  through  various  obscure  periodicals, 
had  been  as  yet  my  only  contribution  to  cur- 
rent literature.  The  sudden  discovery  that  I 
was  the  Mr.  Anybody,  and  that  charming  women 
thought  of  me,  and  were  delighted  to  meet  me, 
was  a  brain-disturbing  draught. 

"  And  it  was  really  you  who  wrote  that  clever 
book?  "  she  continued,  "  and  all  those  brilliant 
things  in  the  magazines  and  journals.  Oh,  it 
must  be  delightful  to  be  clever!  " 

She  gave  breath  to  a  little  sigh  of  vain  regret 
that  went  to  my  heart.  To  console  her  I  com- 
menced a  labored  compliment,  but  she  stopped 
me  with  her  fan.  On  after  reflection  I  was  glad 
she  had;  it  would  have  been  one  of  those  things 
better  expressed  otherwise. 

"  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say,"  she 
laughed;  "  but  don't.  Besides,  from  you  I 
should  not  know  quite  how  to  take  it.  You  can 
be  so  satirical!  " 

I  tried  to  look  as  though  I  could  be,  but  in 
her  case  would  not. 

She  let  her  ungloved  hand  rest  for  an  instant 


314  A    CHARMING    WOMAN. 

upon  mine.  Had  she  left  it  there  for  two,  I 
should  have  gone  down  on  my  knees  before  her, 
or  have  stood  on  my  head  at  her  feet — have 
made  a  fool  of  myself  in  some  way  or  another 
before  the  whole  room  full.  She  timed  it  to  a 
nicety. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  pay  me  compliments," 
she  said;  "  I  want  us  to  be  friends.  Of  course, 
in  years  I  am  old  enough  to  be  your  mother." 
(By  the  register,  I  should  say,  she  might  have 
been  thirty-two,  but  looked  twenty-six.  I  was 
twenty-three,  and,  I  fear,  foolish  for  my  age.) 
"  But  you  know  the  world,  and  you're  so  differ- 
ent to  the  other  people  one  meets.  Society  is 
so  hollow  and  artificial;  don't  you  find  it  so? 
You  don't  know  how  I  long  sometimes  to  get 
away  from  it — to  know  someone  to  whom  I 
could  show  my  real  self,  who  would  understand 
me.  You'll  come  and  see  me  sometimes — I'm 
always  at  home  on  Wednesdays — and  let  me 
talk  to  you,  won't  you?  and  you  must  tell  me 
all  your  clever  thoughts." 

It  occurred  to  me  that  maybe  she'd  like  to 
hear  a  few  of  them  there  and  then,  but  before  I 
had  got  well  started  a  hollow  society  man  came 
up  and  suggested  supper,  and  she  was  compelled 


A    CHARMING    WOMAN. 


315 


to  leave  me.  As  she  disappeared,  however,  in 
the  throng,  she  looked  back  over  her  shoulder 
with  a  glance  half-pathetic,  half-comic,  that  I 
understood.  It  said:  "  Pity  me.  I've  got  to 


At  home. 

be  bored  by  this  vapid,  shallow  creature;"  and 
I  did. 

I  sought  her  through  all  the  rooms  before  I 
went.  I  wished  to  assure  her  of  my  sympathy 
and  support.  I  learned,  however,  from  the  but- 
ler that  she  had  left  early,  in  company  with  the 
hollow  society  man. 

A  fortnight  later  I  ran  against  a  young  liter- 


3l6  A    CHAKMING    WOMAN. 

ary  friend  in  Regent  Street,  and  we  lunched  to- 
gether at  the  Monico. 

"  I  met  such  a  charming  woman  last  night," 
he  said,  "  a  Mrs.  Clifton  Courtenay — a  delight- 
ful woman." 

"Oh!  do  you  know  her?"  I  exclaimed. 
"  Oh,  we're  very  old  friends!  She's  always  want- 
ing me  to  go  and  see  her.  I  really  must." 

"  Oh!  I  didn't  know  you  knew  her,"  he  an- 
swered. Somehow  the  fact  of  my  knowing  her 
seemed  to  lessen  her  importance  in  his  eyes. 
But  soon  he  recovered  his  enthusiasm  for  her. 

"  A  wonderfully  clever  woman,"  he  continued. 
"  I'm  afraid  I  disappointed  her  a  little,  though." 
He  said  this,  however,  with  a  laugh  that  contra- 
dicted his  words.  "  She  would  not  believe 
I  was  the  Mr.  Smith.  She  imagined  from  my 
book  that  I  was  quite  an  old  man." 

I  could  see  nothing  in  my  friend's  book  my- 
self to  suggest  that  the  author  was,  of  necessity, 
anything  over  eighteen.  The  mistake  appeared 
to  me  to  display  want  of  acumen,  but  it  had  evi- 
dently pleased  him  greatly. 

"  I  felt  quite  sorry  for  her,"  he  went  on, 
"  chained  to  that  bloodless,  artificial  society  in 


A    CHARMING    WOMAN.  3r7 

which  she  lives.  '  You  can't  tell,'  she  said  to 
me,  '  how  I  long  to  meet  someone  to  whom  I 
could  show  my  real  self — who  would  understand 
me.'  I'm  going  to  see  her  on  Wednesday." 

I  went  with  him.  My  conversation  with  her 
was  not  as  confidential  as  I  had  anticipated, 
owing  to  there  being  some  eighty  other  people 
present  in  a  room  intended  for  the  accommoda- 
tion of  eight;  but,  after  surging  round  for  an 
hour  in  hot  and  aimless  misery — as  very  young 
men  at  such  gatherings  do,  knowing,  as  a  rule, 
only  the  man  who  has  brought  them,  and  being 
unable  to  find  him — I  contrived  to  get  a  few 
words  with  her. 

She  greeted  me  with  a  smile,  in  the  light  of 
which  I  at  once  forgot  my  past  discomfort,  and 
let  her  fingers  rest,  with  delicious  pressure,  for 
a  moment  upon  mine. 

"  How  good  of  you  to  keep  your  promise," 
she  said;  "these  people  have  been  tiring  me 
so.  Sit  here  and  tell  me  all  you  have  been 
doing." 

She  listened  for  about  ten  seconds,  and  then 
.interrupted  me  with:  "And  that  clever  friend 
of  yours — that  you  came  with,  I  met  him  at 


318  A    CHARMING    WOMAN. 

dear  Lady  Lennon's  last  week — has  he  written 
anything?  " 

I  explained  to  her  that  he  had. 

"  Tell  me  about  it,"  she  said;  "  I  get  so  little 
time  for  reading,  and  then  I  only  care  to  read 
the  books  that  help  me;"  and  she  gave  me  a 
grateful  look  more  eloquent  than  words. 

I  described  the  work  to  her,  and,  wishing  to 
do  my  friend  justice,  I  even  recited  a  few  of  the 
passages  upon  which,  as  I  knew,  he  especially 
prided  himself. 

One  sentence  in  particular  seemed  to  lay  hold 
of  her.  "  A  good  woman's  arms  round  a  man's 
neck  is  a  life-belt  thrown  out  to  him  from 
heaven." 

"How  beautiful!"  she  murmured;  "say  it 
again." 

I  said  it  again,  and  she  repeated  it  after  me. 

Then  a  noisy  old  lady  swooped  down  upon 
her,  and  I  drifted  away  into  a  corner,  where  I 
tried  to  look  as  if  I  were  enjoying  myself,  and 
failed. 

Later  on,  feeling  it  time  to  go,  I  sought  my 
friend,  and  found  him  talking  to  her  in  a  corner. 
I  approached  and  waited.  They  were  discussing 


A    CHARMING    WOMAN.  319 

the  latest  East  End  murder.  A  drunken  woman 
had  been  killed  by  her  husband,  a  hard-working 
artisan,  who  had  been  maddened  by  the  ruin  of 
his  home. 

"  Ah,"  she  was  saying,  "  what  power  a  woman 
has  to  drag  a  man  down  or  to  lift  him  up!  I 
never  read  a  case  in  which  a  woman  is  con- 
cerned without  thinking  of  those  beautiful  lines 
of  yours:  '  A  good  woman's  arms  round  a 
man's  neck  is  a  life-belt  thrown  out  to  him  from 
heaven.' ' 

Opinions  differed  concerning  her  religion  and 
politics.  Said  the  Low  Church  parson:  "An 
earnest  Christian  woman,  sir,  of  that  unostenta- 
tious type  that  has  always  been  the  bulwark  of 
our  church.  I  am  proud  to  know  that  woman, 
and  I  am  proud  to  think  that  poor  words  of 
mine  have  been  the  humble  instrument  to  wean 
that  true  woman's  heart  from  the  frivolities  of 
fashion,  and  to  fix  her  thoughts  upon  higher 
things — a  good  churchwoman,  sir,  a  good 
churchwoman  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word." 

Said  the  pale,  aristocratic-looking  young  abbe 
to  the  comtesse,  the  light  of  old-world  enthusi- 


320 


A    CHARMING    WOMAN. 


asm  shining  from  his  deep-set  eyes:  "  I  have 
great  hopes  of  our  dear  friend.  She  finds  it  hard 
to  sever  the  ties  of  time  and  love;  we  are  all 
weak.  But  her  heart  turns  toward  our  mother 


The  Low  Church  parson. 

Church — as  a  child,  though  suckled  among 
strangers,  yearns,  after  many  years,  for  the 
bosom  that  has  borne  it.  We  have  spoken,  and 
I — even  I — may  be  the  voice  in  the  wilderness, 
leading  the  lost  sheep  back  to  the  fold." 


A    CHARMING    WOMAN.  321 

Said  Sir  Harry  Bennett,  the  great  Theoso- 
phist  lecturer,  writing  to  a  friend:  "A  singu- 
larly gifted  woman,  and  a  woman  evidently 
searching  for  the  truth.  A  woman  capable  of 
willing  her  own  life.  A  woman  not  afraid  of 
thought  and  reason — a  lover  of  wisdom.  I  have 
talked  much  with  her  at  one  time  or  another, 
and  I  have  found  her  grasp  my  meaning  with  a 
quickness  of  perception  quite  unusual  in  my  ex- 
perience; and  the  arguments  I  have  let  fall  I 
am  convinced  have  borne  excellent  fruit.  I 
look  forward  to  her  becoming,  at  no  very  dis- 
tant date,  a  valued  member  of  our  little  band. 
Indeed,  without  betraying  confidence,  I  may 
almost  say  I  regard  her  conversion  as  an  accom- 
plished fact." 

Colonel  Maxim  always  spoke  of  her  as  "  a 
fair  pillar  of  the  State." 

"With  the  enemy  in  our  midst,"  said  the 
florid  old  soldier,  "  it  behooves  every  true  man 
— aye,  and  every  true  woman — to  rally  to  the 
defense  of  the  country;  and  all  honor,  say  I,  to 
noble  ladies  such  as  Mrs.  Clifton  Courtenay, 
who,  laying  aside  their  natural  shrinking  from 
publicity,  come  forward  in  such  a  crisis  as  the 


322 


A    CHARMING    WOMAN. 


present    to    combat  the  forces  of  disorder  and 
disloyalty  now  rampant  in  the  land." 

"But,"  some  listener  would  suggest,  "I  gath- 
ered from  young  Jocelyn  that  Mrs.  Clifton 
Courtenay  held  some- 
what advanced  views  on 
social  and  political  ques- 
tions." 

"  Jocelyn,"  the  colonel 
would  reply  with  scorn; 
"  pah !     There  may  have 
been    a   short    space    of 
time    during    which    the 
fellow's    long    hair    and 
windy  rhetoric  impressed 
her.     But   I   flatter  my- 
self I've  put  my  spoke 
in  Mr.  Jocelyn's  wheel. 
Why,  damme,  sir,  she's  consented  to  stand  for 
Grand  Dame  of  the  Bermondsey  branch  of  the 
Primrose  League  next  year.     What's  Jocelyn 
say  to  that,  the  scoundrel!  " 
What  Jocelyn  said  was: 
"  I  know  the  woman  is  weak.    But  I  do  not 
blame  her;  I  pity  her.    When  the  time  comes — 


Young  Jocelyn. 


A    CHARMING    WOMAN.  323 

as  soon  it  will — when  woman  is  no  longer  a  pup- 
pet, dancing  to  the  threads  held  by  some  brain- 
less man,  when  a  woman  is  not  threatened  with 
social  ostracism  for  daring  to  follow  her  own 
conscience  instead  of  that  of  her  nearest  male 
relative,  then  will  be  the  time  to  judge  her.  It 
is  not  for  me  to  betray  the  confidence  reposed  in 
me  by  a  suffering  woman,  but  you  can  tell  that 
interesting  old  fossil,  Colonel  Maxim,  that  he 
and  the  other  old  women  of  the  Bermond- 
sey  branch  of  the  Primrose  League  may  elect 
Mrs.  Clifton  Courtenay  for  their  president,  and 
make  the  most  of  it ;  they  have  only  got  the  out- 
side of  the  woman.  Her  heart  is  beating  time 
to  the  tramp  of  an  onward-marching  people;  her 
soul's  eyes  are  straining  for  the  glory  of  a  com- 
ing dawn." 

But  they  all  agreed  that  she  was  a  charming 
woman. 


THE  HOBBY  RIDER. 

UMP.    Bump.    Bump-bump.    Bump. 
I  sat  up  in  bed  and  listened  in- 
tently.    It  seemed  to  me  as  if  some- 
one,  with   a  muffled  hammer,   were 
trying  to  knock  bricks  out  of  ttie  wall. 

"  Burglars,"  I  said  to  myself  (one  assumes, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  that  everything  happen- 
ing in  this  world  after  I  a.  m.,  is  due  to  bur- 
glars), and  I  reflected  what  a  curiously  literal, 
but  at  the  same  time  slow  and  cumbersome, 
method  of  housebreaking  they  had  adopted. 

The  bumping  continued  irregularly,  yet  un- 
interruptedly. 

My  bed  was  by  the  window.  I  reached  out 
my  hand  and  drew  aside  a  corner  of  the  curtain. 
The  sunlight  streamed  into  the  room.  I  looked 
at  my  watch:  it  was  ten  minutes  past  five. 

A  most  unbusinesslike  hour  for  burglars,  I 
thought.  Why,  it  will  be  breakfast  time  before 
they  get  in. 

334 


THE  HOBBY  RIDER.  325 

Suddenly  there  came  a  crash,  and  some  sub- 
stance, striking  against  the  blind,  fell  upon  the 
floor.  I  sprang  out  of  bed  and  threw  open  the 
window. 

A  red-haired  young  gentleman,  scantily  clad 
in  a  sweater  and  a  pair  of  flannel  trousers,  stood 
on  the  lawn  below  me. 

"  Good-morning,"  he  said  cheerily;  "  do  you 
mind  throwing  me  back  my  ball?  " 

"What  ball?"  I  said. 

"  My  tennis  ball,"  he  answered;  "  it  must  be 
somewhere  in  the  room.  It  went  clean  through 
the  window." 

I  found  the  ball  and  threw  it  back  to 
him. 

"  What  are  you  doing?  "  I  asked.  "  Playing 
tennis?  " 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  am  practicing  against 
the  side  of  the  house.  It  improves  your  game 
wonderfully." 

"  It  don't  improve  my  night's  rest,"  I  an- 
swered, somewhat  surlily,  I  fear.  "  I  came 
down  here  for  peace  and  quiet.  Can't  you  do 
it  in  the  daytime?  " 

"  Daytime!  "  he  laughed.    "  Why,  it  has  been 


326  THE  HOBBY  RIDER. 

daylight  for  the  last  two  hours.  Never  mind; 
I'll  go  round  the  other  side." 

He  disappeared  round  the  corner  and  set  to 
work  at  the  back,  where  he  woke  up  the  dog. 
I  heard  another  window  smash,  followed  by  a 
sound  as  of  somebody  getting  up  violently  in 
a  distant  part  of  the  house;  and  shortly  after- 
ward I  must  have  fallen  asleep  again. 

I  had  come  to  spend  a  few  weeks  at  a  board- 
ing establishment  in  Deal.  He  was  the  only 
other  young  man  in  the  house,  and  I  was  natu- 
rally thrown  a  good  deal  upon  his  society.  He 
was  a  pleasant,  genial  young  fellow;  but  he 
would  have  been  better  company  had  he  been 
a  little  less  enthusiastic  as  regards  tennis. 

He  played  tennis  ten  hours  a  day  on  the 
average.  He  got  up  romantic  parties  to  play 
it  by  moonlight  (when  half  his  time  was  gener- 
ally taken  up  in  separating  his  opponents);  and 
godless  parties  to  play  it  on  Sundays.  On  wet 
days  I  have  seen  him  practicing  services  by  him- 
self in  a  mackintosh  and  galoshes. 

He  had  been  spending  the  winter  with  his 
people  at  Tangiers,  and  I  asked  him  how  he 
liked  the  place. 


THE  HOBBY  RIDER.  327 

"  Oh,  a  beast  of  a  hole!  "  he  replied.  "  There 
is  not  a  court  anywhere  in  the  town.  We  tried 
playing  on  the  roof,  but  the  mater  thought  it 
dangerous." 

Switzerland  he  had  been  delighted  with.  He 
counseled  me  next  time  I  went  to>  stay  at  Zer- 
matt.  "  There  is  a  capital  court  at  Zermatt," 
he  said;  "you  might  almost  fancy  yourself  at 
Wimbledon." 

A  mutual  acquaintance  whom  I  subsequently 
met  told  me  that  at  the  top  of  the  Jungfrau  he 
had  said  to  him,  his  eyes  fixed  the  while  upon 
a  small  snow  plateau,  inclosed  by  precipices,  a 
few  hundred  feet  below  them:  "  By  Jove!  that 
wouldn't  make  a  half  bad  little  tennis  court — 
that  flat  bit  down  there;  have  to  be  careful  you 
didn't  run  back  too  far." 

When  he  was  not  playing  tennis,  or  practic- 
ing tennis,  or  reading  about  tennis,  he  was  talk- 
ing about  tennis.  Renshaw  was  the  prominent 
figure  in  the  tennis  world  at  that  time,  and  he 
mentioned  Renshaw  until  there  grew  up  within 
my  soul  a  dark  desire  to  kill  Renshaw  in  a  quiet, 
unostentatious  way,  and  bury  him. 

One  drenching  afternoon  he  talked  tennis  to 


328  THE   HOBBY  RIDER. 

me  for  three  hours  on  end,  referring  to  Ren- 
shaw,  so  far  as  I  kept  count,  four  thousand  nine 
hundred  and  thirteen  times.  After  tea  he  drew 
his  chair  to  the  window  beside  me,  and  com- 
menced: 

"  Have  you  ever  noticed  how  Renshaw " 

I  said:  "Suppose  someone  took  a  gun — 
someone  who  could  aim  very  straight — and 
went  out  and  shot  Renshaw  till  he  was  quite 
dead,  would  you  tennis  players  drop  him  and 
talk  about  somebody  else?  " 

"  Oh,  but  who  would  shoot  Renshaw?  "  he 
asked  indignantly. 

"  Never  mind,"  I  said;  "  suppose  someone 
did?" 

"  Well,  then,  there  would  be  his  brother,"  he 
replied. 

I  had  forgotten  that.  "  Well,  we  won't  argue 
about  how  many  of  them  there  are,"  I  said; 
"  suppose  someone  killed  the  lot,  should  we 
hear  less  of  Renshaw?  " 

"  Never!  "  he  replied  emphatically.  "  Ren- 
shaw will  always  be  a  name  wherever  tennis  is 
spoken  of." 

I  dread  to  think  what  the  result  might  have 
been  had  his  answer  been  other  than  it  was. 


THE  HOBBY  RIDER.  329 

The  next  year  he  dropped  tennis  completely, 
and  became  an  ardent  amateur  photographer, 
and  all  his  friends  implored  him  to  return  to 
tennis,  and  sought  to  interest  him  in  talk  about 
services  and  returns  and  volleys,  and  in  anec- 
dotes concerning  Renshaw.  But  he  would  not 
heed  them. 

Whatever  he  saw,  wherever  he  went,  he  took. 
He  took  his  friends,  and  made  them  his  enemies. 
He  took  babies,  and  brought  despair  to  fond 
mothers'  hearts.  He  took  young  wives,  and 
cast  a  shadow  on  the  home.  Once  there  was 
a  young  man  who  loved  not  wisely,  so  his  friends 
thought,  but  the  more  they  talked  against  her 
the  more  he  clung  to  her.  Then  a  happy 
idea  occurred  to  the  father:  he  got  Beg- 
glely  to  photograph  her  in  seven  different  po- 
sitions. 

When  her  lover  saw  the  first  he  said: 

"What  an  awful-looking  thing!  Who  did 
it?" 

When  Begglely  showed  him  the  second,  he 
said: 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,  it's  not  a  bit  like  her. 
You've  made  her  look  an  ugly  old  woman." 

At  the  third  he  said: 


33°  THE  HOBBY  RIDER. 

"  Whatever  have  you  done  to- her  feet?  They 
can't  be  that  size,  you  know.  It  isn't  in  nature." 

At  the  fourth  he  exclaimed: 

"  But,  Heavens,  man!  Look  at  the  shape 
you've  made  her.  Where  on  earth  did  you  get 
the  idea  from?  " 

At  the  first  glimpse  of  the  fifth  he  staggered. 

"Great  Scott!"  he  cried,  with  a  shudder; 
"  what  a  ghastly  expression  you've  got  into  it ! 
It  isn't  human!  " 

Begglely  was  growing  jffended;  but  the 
father,  who  was  standing  by,  came  to  his 
defense. 

"It's  nothing  to  do  with  Begglely!"  ex- 
claimed the  old  gentleman  suavely.  "  It  can't 
be  his  fault.  What  is  a  photographer?  Simply 
an  instrument  in  the  hands  of  science.  He  ar- 
ranges his  apparatus,  and  whatever  is  in  front 
of  it  comes  into  it. 

"  No,"  continued  the  old  gentleman,  laying 
a  constraining  hand  upon  Begglely,  who  was 
about  to  resume  the  exhibition,  "  don't — don't 
show  him  the  other  two." 

I  was  sorry  for  the  poor  girl,  for  I  bdieve  she 
really  cared  for  the  youngster;  and  as  for  her 


THE  HOBBY  RIDER.  331 

looks,  they  were  quite  up  to  the  average.  But 
some  evil  sprite  seemed  to  have  got  into  Beg- 
glely's  camera.  It  seized  upon  defects  with  the 
unerring  instinct  of  a  born  critic,  and  dilated 
upon  them  to  the  obscuration  of  all  virtues.  A 
man  with  a  pimple  became  a  pimple  with  a  man 
as  background.  People  with  strongly  marked 
features  became  mere  adjuncts  to  their  own 
noses.  One  man  in  the  neighborhood  had,  un- 
detected, worn  a  wig  for  fourteen  years.  Beg- 
glely's  camera  discovered  the  fault  in  an  instant, 
and  so  completely  exposed  it  that  the  man's 
friends  wandered  afterward  how  the  fact  ever 
could  have  escaped  them.  The  thing  seemed  to 
take  a  pleasure  in  showing  humanity  at  its  very 
worst.  Babies  usually  came  out  with  an  ex- 
pression of  low  cunning.  Most  young  girls  had 
to  take  their  choice  of  appearing  either  as  sim- 
pering idiots  or  embryo  vixens.  To  mild  old 
ladies  it  generally  gave  a  look  of  aggressive 
cynicism.  Our  vicar,  as  excellent  an  old  gen- 
tleman as  ever  breathed,  Begglely  presented  to 
us  as  a  beetle-browed  savage  of  a  peculiarly  low 
type  of  intellect ;  while  upon  the  leading  solici- 
tor of  the  town  he  bestowed  an  expression  of 


332  THE  HOBBY  RIDER. 

such  thinly  veiled  hypocrisy  that  few  who  saw 
the  photograph  cared  ever  again  to  trust  him 
with  their  affairs. 

As  regards  myself,  I  should,  perhaps,  make 
no  comment;  I  am  possibly  a  prejudiced  party. 
All  I  will  say,  therefore,  is  that  if  I  in  any  way 
resemble  Begglely's  photograph  of  me,  then  the 
critics  are  fully  justified  in  everything  they  have 
at  any  time,  anywhere,  said  of  me — and  more. 
Nor,  I  maintain — though  I  make  no  pretense 
of  possessing  the  figure  of  Apollo — is  one  of  my 
legs  twice  the  length  of  the  other,  and  neither 
does  it  curve  upward.  This  I  can  prove.  Beg- 
glely  allowed  that  an  accident  had  occurred  to 
the  negative  during  the  process  of  development, 
but  his  explanation  does  not  appear  on  the  pic- 
ture, and  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  an  injustice 
has  been  done  me. 

His  perspective  seemed  to  be  governed  by  no 
law,  either  human  or  divine.  I  have  seen  a  pho- 
tograph of  his  uncle  and  a  windmill,  judging 
from  which  I  defy  any  unprejudiced  person  to 
say  which  was  the  bigger,  the  uncle  or  the  mill. 

On  one  occasion  he  created  quite  a  scandal 


THE  HOBBY  RIDER.  333 

in  the  parish  by  exhibiting  a  well-known  and 
eminently  respectable  maiden  lady  nursing  a 
young  man  on  her  knee.  The  gentleman's  face 
was  indistinct,  and  he  was  dressed  in  a  costume 
which,  upon  a  man  of  his  size — one  would  have 
estimated  him  as  rising  six  feet  four  inches — 
apparently  absurdly  juvenile.  He  had  one  arm 
round  her  neck,  and  she  was  holding  his  other 
hand  and  smirking. 

I,  knowing  something  of  Begglely's  machine, 
willingly  accepted  the  lady's  explanation,  which 
was  to  the  effect  that  the  male  in  question  was 
her  nephew,  aged  eleven,  but  the  uncharitable 
ridiculed  this  statement;  and  appearances  were 
certainly  against  her. 

It  was  in  the  early  days  of  the  photographic 
craze,  and  an  inexperienced  world  was  rather 
pleased  with  the  idea  of  being  taken  on  the 
cheap.  The  consequence  was  that  nearly  every- 
one for  three  miles  round  sat  or  stood  or  leaned 
or  laid  to  Begglely  at  one  time  or  another,  with 
the  result  that  a  less  conceited  parish  than  ours 
it  would  have  been  difficult  to  discover.  No 
one  who  had  once  looked  upon  a  photograph  of 


334  THE  HOBBY  RIDER. 

himself  taken  by  Begglely  ever  again  felt  any 
pride  in  his  personal  appearance.  The  picture 
was  invariably  a  revelation  to  him. 

Later  some  evil  disposed  person  invented 
Kodaks,  and  Begglely  went  everywhere  slung 
on  to  a  thing  that  looked  like  an  overgrown 
missionary  box,  and  that  bore  a  legend  to  the 
effect  that  if  Begglely  would  pull  the  button, 
a  shameless  company  would  do  the  rest.  Life 
became  a  misery  to  Begglely's  friends.  Nobody 
dared  do  anything  for  fear  of  being  taken  in  the 
act.  He  took  an  instantaneous  photograph  of 
his  own  father  swearing  at  the  gardener,  and 
snapped  his  youngest  sister  and  her  lover  at  the 
exact  moment  of  farewell  at  the  garden  gate. 
Nothing  was  sacred  to  him.  He  Kodaked  his 
aunt's  funeral  from  behind,  and  showed  the  chief 
mourner  but  one  whispering  a  funny  story  into 
the  ear  of  the  third  cousin  as  they  stood  behind 
their  hats,  beside  the  grave. 

Public  indignation  was  at  its  highest  when 
a  newcomer  to  the  neighborhood,  a  young  fel- 
low named  Haynoth,  suggested  the  getting  to- 
gether of  a  party  for  a  summer's  tour  in 
Turkey.  Everybody  took  up  the  idea  with  en- 


THE  HOBBY  RIDER  335 

thusiasm,  and  recommended  Begglely  as  the 
"  party."  We  had  great  hopes  from  that  tour. 
Our  idea  was  that  Begglely  would  pull  his  but- 
ton outside  a  harem  or  behind  a  sultana,  and 
that  a  Bashi  Bazouk  or  a  Janissary  would  do 
the  rest  for  us. 

We  were,  however,  partly  doomed  to  disap- 
pointment— I  say  "  partly  "  because,  although 
Begglely  returned  alive,  he  came  back  entirely 
cured  of  his  photographic  craze.  He  said  that 
every  English-speaking  man,  woman,  or  child 
whom  he  met  abroad  had  its  camera  with  it, 
and  that  after  a  time  the  sight  of  a  black  cloth 
or  the  click  of  a  button  began  to  madden  him. 

He  told  us  that  on  the  summit  of  Mount 
Tutra,  in  the  Carpathians,  the  English  and 
American  amateur  photographers,  waiting  to 
take  "  the  grand  panorama,"  were  formed  by 
the  Hungarian  police  in  queue,  two  abreast, 
each  with  his  or  her  camera  under  his  or  her 
arm;  and  that  a  man  had  to  stand  sometimes  as 
long  as  three  and  a  half  hours  before  his  turn 
came  round.  He  also  told  us  that  the  beggars 
in  Constantinople  went  about  with  placards 
hung  round  their  necks,  stating  their  charges 


336  THE  HOBBY  RIDER. 

for  being  photographed.  One  of  these  price 
lists  he  brought  back  with  him  as  a  sample.  It 
ran: 

One  snap  shot,  back  or  front 2  francs 

One  snap  shot,  with  expression  ...  3  francs 
One  snap  shot,  surprised  in  quaint 

attitude 4  francs 

One  snap  shot,  while    saying    pray- 
ers    5  francs 

One  snap  shot,  while  fighting  .  .    .  .  10  francs 

He  said  that  in  some  instances,  where  a  man 
had  an  exceptionally  villainous  cast  of  counte- 
nance or  was  exceptionally  deformed,  as  much 
as  twenty  francs  was  demanded  and  readily  ob- 
tained. 

He  abandoned  photography  and  took  to  golf. 
He  showed  people  how,  by  digging  a  hole  here 
and  putting  a  brickbat  or  two  there,  they  could 
convert  a  tennis  lawn  into  a  miniature  golf  links, 
and  did  it  for  them.  He  persuaded  elderly 
ladies  and  gentlemen  that  it  was  the  mildest  ex- 
ercise going,  and  would  drag  them  for  miles 
over  wet  gorse  and  heather,  and  bring  them 


THE  HOBBY  RIDER.  337 

home   dead   beat,    coughing,    and   full   of   evil 
thoughts. 

The  last  time  I  saw  him  was  in  Switzerland, 
a  few  months  ago.  He  appeared  indifferent  to 
the  subject  of  golf,  but  talked  much  about 
whist.  We  met  by  chance  at  Grindelwald,  and 
agreed  to  climb  the  Faulhcrn  together  next 
morning.  Half  way  up  we  rested,  and  I  strolled 
on  a  little  way  by  myself  to  gain  a  view.  Re- 
turning, I  found  him  with  a  "  Cavendish  "  in 
his  hand,  and  a  pack  of  cards  spread  out  before 
him  on  the  grass,  solving  a  problem. 


THE    END. 


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By    PAUL   LEICESTER   FORD.       i2mo.       Cloth, 
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transcripts  of  life  and  fact— not  dry  irrelevancies  thrown  in 
byway  of  imparting  information,  but  lively  detail,  needful 
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humble  chairmanship  of  a  primary  to  the  dictator's  throne. 
...  In  the  use  of  dramatic  possibilities.  Mr.  Ford  is  dis- 
creet and  natural,  and  without  giving  Stirling  a  heroic  pose, 
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Stirling's  private  and  domestic  story  is  well  knit  with  that 
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The  Review  of  Reviews:  "His  relations  with  women 
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a  thing  as  Municipal  politics  calls  for  sympathies  that  are 
not  often  united  with  a  sane  ethical  outlook;  but  Peter 
Stirling  is  possessed  of  the  one  without  losing  his  sense  of 
the  other,  and  it  is  this  combination  of  qualities  that  make 
him  so  impressive  and  admirable  a  figure.  .  .  .  Both  a 
readable  and  an  ethically  helpful  book." 

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alive  and  easily  recognizable." 

New  York  Times  :  "  Mr.  Ford's  able  political  novel." 

The  Literary  World:  "A  fine,  tender  love-story.  .  .  . 
A  very  unusual  but,  let  us  believe,  a  possible  character. 
.  .  .  Peter  Stilring  is  a  man's  hero.  .  .  .  Very  readable 
and  enjoyable." 

The  Independent:  "Full  of  life.  The  interest  never 
flags.  .  .  .  It  is  long  since  we  have  read  a  better  novel  or 
one  more  thoroughly  and  naturally  American." 

The  Boston  Advertiser  :  "Sure  to  excite  attention  and 
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HENRY  HOLT  &  CO., 


from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


